


a war amongst ourselves

by dropofrum (95echelon)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: BAMF Women, Bechdel Test Pass, Canon-Typical Violence, Ensemble Cast, Essosi Politics, F/F, F/M, House Stark will Endure, POV Multiple, R plus L equals J, Westerosi Politics, or well - S in this case
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-11-28
Packaged: 2018-12-19 04:04:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 31,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11889621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/95echelon/pseuds/dropofrum
Summary: Sansa Snow knew, from the time she was very young, that her life would be nothing like the songs. Princes don't fall in love with bastard girls, and she knows that, truly.Still, it's difficult to look at Jon Stark, with his dark hair and kind eyes, with his reluctant, shy smile, and notwant.





	1. someone will love you

**Author's Note:**

> This work is unbeta'd. Errors, if any, are my own.  
> Constructive criticism is always appreciated. If you find there's any particularly heinous plot holes, let me know on tumblr @dropofrum. And as always, thanks for reading!

####  _"We can't fight a war amongst ourselves. We have so many enemies now."  
\- Jon Snow, to Sansa Stark_

* * *

 

#  _Book I: Win, or Die_

 

* * *

Until she was four years old, Sansa thought her mother was Lady Catelyn Stark. 

It seemed a miracle to her later, that she'd not understood the truth earlier, but for heavens' sake, it wasn't _completely_ unbelievable. 

They lived in the same big keep, and she and Jon ate together in the nursery, played together, slept two doors down from each other. Maester Luwin taught them both their letters, and Septa Mordane had rapped both their knuckles when they got into thoroughly idiotic scrapes in the village. Ned Stark came to see them often, in the evenings, tucking Jon by his side and setting Sansa on his lap, as they chattered noisily about newly littered pups in the kennels and Old Nan's stories that have Jon nightmares and the squirrel that had bit Sansa's finger in the godswood. This last one had received special attention, with Ned Stark carefully examining her finger while she tried not to cry all over again, before kissing her finger very gently and calling her ' _my brave girl_ ,' in his deep, rumbling voice. 

She caught Jon's eye from over her father's shoulder, and grinned when he smiled at her, always a quiet smile, always just a little shy. So what did it matter if only Jon was allowed to call Lady Stark 'Mother,' the way Sansa secretly longed to?

In Father's arms, there was nothing that could dim her joy; knowing she was safe, knowing she was loved. 

It did not last.

 

* * *

"I'm going to be a princess!" Jeyne Poole announced, flouncing through the garden in her pretty new gown. 

"Well," Sansa said, not willing to be upped, "I'm going to be the Lady of the Castle!" She threw her shoulders back, and stuck her chin up in the air and twirled, her skirts flying up to her knees and wrapping around her calves. 

Jeyne stopped and turned around, frowning. "No you're not," she announced firmly. "Pick something else."

Sansa stuck her tongue out peevishly, feeling dizzier than a fly in a cask of mead. "I _shall_ be the Lady," she insisted imperiously. "And now you have to bow to me."

But Jeyne giggled, and the sound was harsh and strange. "I do not!" she announced. "You're the bastard. You're to bow to _me."_

Sansa gasped as if she'd been struck, the whole world feeling off-kilter. _Bastard?_ She wasn't- she- "I'm not!" she cried, stomping her foot. "I'm _not_ a bastard! I'm Ned Stark's daughter! You take it back!"

Jeyne rolled her eyes heavily. "Ned Stark's _bastard_ daughter," she mocked. " _Such_ an honor to meet you, my _lady_." And then she did bow, holding Sansa's gaze the whole time, a vicious, bloodthirsty smile on her little face. 

It had been a week since Sansa turned four. 

 

* * *

 She and Jeyne should not have been friends from that day on; Sansa ought to have held her head up, and walked away from such malice, such petty pride. 

But Jeyne Poole was the only other girl near her age in the keep, and, being the castellan's daughter, they were thrown together constantly - for practicing their embroidery and learning how to dance and sing and pour tea and listening to the Septa's lectures on modesty and propriety and - this directed at Sansa - how _thoroughly_ inappropriate it was to go off cavorting in the godswood with boys at the advanced age of _seven_. 

 _Cavorting!_ _With_  ' _boys'! When it was only Jon! (And unfortunately, also Theon Greyjoy.)_

She fumed internally all through the rest of the lecture, staring at the hem of her gown and mentally punching several extremely resilient walls. But when the lesson was over, she stood up and smiled and curtseyed, thanking the Septa more graciously than Jeyne would _ever_ manage, because she had a roof over her head at the pleasure of the Starks and she didn't fancy being tossed out only because the _stupid_ Septa was _unfair, so completely and utterly **unfair!**_

Life wasn't fair, and Sansa knew it better than anyone else. 

 

* * *

The Starks continued having children at a prodigious rate. Robb came along when she was five, and for a brief time, it was rather too many boys for Sansa's taste - Jon and Theon making mud pies, and going off to swim in the freezing rivers around Wintertown, and scaling the weirwoods and tearing up new shirts every other day. 

When baby Robb came around, Sansa had been most awfully disappointed. But it turned out, baby boys weren't nearly as much trouble as six year old boys, and Robb took to following Sansa around the keep like a baby duckling. They teased him relentlessly for it, the boys did, moaning about how Sansa Snow had stolen the Stark baby, but Robb was too dear and too little to understand, only crawling into Sansa's lap and giggling when she rained kisses on his darling face. 

And then Lady Stark gave birth to Arya. 

 

* * *

Sansa didn't quite realize that she was pretty - really, properly _'pretty,'_ like a maiden in a song - until well into her eleventh year. 

"Where are you headed?" Jeyne demanded, one summer morning, full skirts swishing softly as she approached Sansa, looping their arms together. 

"And a good morning to you too, Miss Poole," Sansa remarked dryly, at which Jeyne elbowed her, just this side of not gentle. " _Ouch_ , you bloodthirsty wench!" Sansa cried, prompting gales of her laughter from her companion. 

Sansa grinned. "The smith, if you must know."

Jeyne smiled brilliantly at this, glee lighting up her face. "Wonderful! I shall accompany you. "

"Oh, will you?" Sansa said with studied nonchalance. Jeyne colored, but persevered.

"Why are you going?" Jeyne asked, and Sansa gestured at the empty, cloth bag on her hip. "The stable needed an order picked up, and I was there this morning. Horseshoes and tack, Master Freddie said, and I volunteered to pick it up."

"The stable?" Jeyne asked, in that perfectly casual way she sometimes did. "Is that what that smell is?"

Sansa keeps quiet, smiling. _Never show weakness._

"As it happens," Jeyne said, "I have business at the forge." 

"Oh?"

Jeyne sniffed. "My necklace clasp broke," she said shortly. 

"My, my. Again?"

"Yes."

"That makes it... Let's see, the fourth time this month?"

Jeyne spluttered, blushing furiously and Sansa took pity on her. "Will Glenn be at the forge today?" she asked blandly, staring off into the distance.

Jeyne smiled cautiously at her, nodding furiously, and Sansa marveled at the fact that her head didn't bobble right off her neck. "He's rather handsome, isn't he?"

"Oh, Sansa," she sighs. "He's _glorious."_

Privately, Sansa didn't see the fuss. He had hard eyes and too cocky a smile, like he knew the effect he had on women and disrespected them for it. All the muscle in the world couldn't hide a bad heart. 

 

* * *

It had all gone wrong, from the moment they'd stepped into the shop. 

Glenn York was only fourteen, but with his bright blue eyes and straw blonde hair and rippling muscles, he looked much older. _Glorious,_ pfft. 

He'd barely looked at Jeyne, frowning at the necklace when she shyly handed it to him, twisting long locks of hair around her finger and smiling her loveliest smile. Sansa had no doubt Jeyne has practiced in the mirror for this very moment, and yet... Nothing. 

"Anything else, miss?" he'd asked Jeyne in that completely inappropriate tone, like he'd rather be telling her to kindly fuck off. Jeyne had stammered her no, and backed away. 

And Sansa had stepped forward, repeating Master Freddie's orders for the keep's stables and Glenn had - he'd bloody lit up. He'd flashed her a smile so bright and twinkling that even Sansa had not been impervious to it, stomach swooping as a blush crept to her cheeks at his attention. He'd hovered as she filled the bag, his big body casting a shadow over hers, sweat-slick muscles gleaming dully in the orange-red lights of the forge, and when he'd offered to carry the purchases back the keep, Sansa had near stumbled over her skirts to keep away from him, angrily muttering her thanks, before escaping the heat of the forge and his heavy, watchful gaze. 

Jeyne had been deathly quiet on their walk back, making no move to loop their arms together, her breath falling in sharp, angry bursts. 

When they were mere yards away from the keep, Jeyne turned to Sansa, a hard smile on her dull face. 

"Men _adore_ bastard girls like you, of course. You're so very pretty, and so very _available,"_ she sneered. "But they don't marry girls like you, Sansa Snow." Jeyne drew herself to her full, unremarkable height. "They marry girls like me."

Then, Sansa Snow knew that her father didn't say it merely because he was her father - she truly  _was_ pretty. ' _So very pretty_.' 

And she would have handed it over in a second, this pretty, _useless_ face of hers, for a mother, for a family. For a name other than Snow.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you like this chapter? If you did, hit kudos! <3


	2. you used to be a dreamer

####  _“I pray to the mother every morning and night, that she return your child to you.  
_

####  _Perhaps this time, she’ll listen.”  
__\- Cersei Baratheon, to Catelyn Stark_

* * *

 

When Sansa had turned five, she'd wanted a brooch - nothing special, a little cameo brooch in moonstone and lavender, to match her eyes. 

When Arya turned five, she wanted a great bloody sword. 

* * *

 

"Do you think I'm pretty?"

Jon frowned at her. "What?"

_Didn't he?_ "You _don't_ think I'm pretty,” she said, trying not to sound accusatory.

_It was fine if Jon didn’t think she was pretty. It was_. 

Jon looked away into the distance, absently petting Storm, the new destrier Father had gotten him for his fourteenth nameday. They'd gone for a ride, her and Jon, and this far out into the wilderness, woods and tundra and snow stretching out into every direction, the world was almost deafeningly quiet. 

"I think you're intelligent," Jon offered. Sansa snorted. 

"That's only because I managed to finish my arithmetic before you did, yesterday."

"Of course that's _part of_ it. It’s also because Maester Luwin doesn't think _you're_ a complete waste of air," he said dryly and Sansa grinned. "I bet he'd give you run of Winterfell, if it was up to him." He produced a shiny red apple from his knapsack and let Storm snatch it greedily from his palm. "What's this about, then?"

"Jeyne said-"

" _Jeyne_  is an idiot. It doesn't _matter_ what she said."

_Easy for him to say._ "Jeyne _said_ ," Sansa repeated, daring him to interrupt. He didn't and she went on, "that the only reason men like me more than her, is because I'm a bastard, and I'm... _available_."

"Jeyne Poole is a jealous hag," he muttered, jaw flexing angrily. "The reason men - _and everyone else_ \- likes you is because you're kind and good and _decent_ ; and she'll never be any of that."

Sansa rolled her eyes. _What absolute rot._

"I am none of those things," she drawled, walking back to her mare, a sweet-natured grey she'd tied to a dead birch. She pushed her foot into a stirrup, preparing to pull herself on and nearly fell back on her arse when Jon came up behind her. 

_“Idiot!"_ she yelled, when he'd put her down on the ground, hands around her waist. "I could've died! Or hit my head!" She'd just had a growth spurt, and Jon was a whole inch shorter than her. It was fan- _tastic_. 

"You are," he insisted, eyes solemn and dark, and Sansa felt his words chase warmth beneath her skin. "You're the best person I know, Sansa. It doesn't matter that you're also the prettiest. I’ll not have you believing you're anything less."

* * *

 

The year the pox swept the village was a terrible one. Summer was in its dusk by then, and Maester Luwin had often said that the children who were born that year, would die in the cold of winter. It made Sansa shiver, as if all the warmth had been sucked out from inside of her, and she had run away from the village, run and run, until the wails of the weeping mothers had died away, until she could only gasp for breath. 

When she stopped, she was beyond the godswood, the air crisp, the sky bright and clear, as if the heavens were mocking each miserable death in her home. 

The pox was a virulent strain, attacking the youngest and the very old. It started mildly, with a cough or a runny nose, and then it worsened. Slowly, steadily, until the afflicted were coughing blood, until each breath rattled in their chest like marbles in a wooden box; the skin blackened and peeled away, leaving raw, bloody sores, hair and nails slid off the skin in trails of pus. It was a horrific, miserable death, that demeaned a man in his last moment, rendered him insensible and shivering, until his heart simply gave out. 

There was no cure. 

In the sept, the bells tolled continually. 

* * *

 

"You ran away." Jon sat down on the log beside her, pulling off his boots and tossing them behind him. He dipped his feet into the lake, bumping against hers with an icy slosh. He was so much taller than her now, the water nearly reached the top of his calves. 

"I- I couldn't listen to the maester anymore."

Jon sighed. "Neither could I."

"It's _horrible_ , Jon," she cried softly, and he moved a little closer, tucking her into his side. She was grateful for his height then, for the easy way she could hide herself in the shelter of his arms. 

"I couldn't- I wouldn't- _Jon."_

"What's wrong, Sansa?" he said, low, and he looked so concerned she thought he might break her heart. 

"If anything happened to you- _Anything-_ I would not _survive_ it. I wouldn't _live_ -" and he wrenched her into his arms, almost desperately. 

"Hush, Sansa," he whispered into her hair, arms like iron around her, anchoring her to him. " _Hush_ , now. There's no need to tempt _all_ the bloody fates." He ran his hand down the length of her back, slowly, soothing. "I'm going to be fine, you know. I'm not going to leave you."

" _Promise_ me," she begged, not caring that there were tears running down her nose, not caring that her throat felt so thick she could hardly speak, her stomach heaving with unspoken fear. " _Promise_ me you'll not leave."

"Not ever," he vowed, pressing a kiss to her brow, cupping her face in his hands, as he looked her in the eye. "Not ever."

And then his face screwed up, and he looked away. He coughed, hand covering his mouth. When he took his hand away, it was smeared red. 

They were nearly fourteen. 

* * *

 

By the time Catelyn had made her way to Jon's room, her brood had already collected outside. Theon sat on the floor, his back against a wall. There was a heavy jute ball in his hand, that he'd bounce against the floor, snapping it out of the air when it ricocheted off the opposite wall. She heard that well before she saw her children, the rhythmic slap of the ball. _Thud, thud, thunk. Thud, thud, thunk._

Robb had curled up on the floor, his head on Theon's thigh, dozing, spit dribbling down his chin. Little Arya was there too, fidgeting and glancing fearfully at the closed door, eyes red but dry, as if she had cried all the tears she could manage. Fierce little wolf, she was. She made her Father so proud. 

When Arya caught sight of her mother, she leapt to her feet, launched herself into her mother's arms with a strangled cry. 

"There, my love," Cat murmured. "He will be alright." She held Arya close as they made their way to Jon's chamber. 

From the room came the murmur of hushed voices. "Sansa's in there, with the maester," Arya muttered sulkily. There was little love between the two girls. "She's the one who found him, coughing blood in the godswood. She brought him back, and sent for Maester Luwin. She hasn't left his side, not for _hours_ and _hours_."

_Of course she hadn't,_ Catelyn thought darkly, as opened the door to see Jon's head cradled in her lap, their hands twisted together on his chest, just above his heart, as Maester Luwin took his pulse. 

_Of course the damned girl was with him in his darkest hour._

* * *

 

_He will survive. If he makes it through this night, he will live._

The hour was late, twilight deepening into true night outside the keep. Maester Luwin's words reverberated through Catelyn's mind like a death knell. She wanted to weep, she wanted to curse, to barter with the heavens for her son's life. She would give _anything_ , _do_ anything, she thought then, anything at _all_ , just to see him wake up. But she couldn't do any of that until the girl left. 

Catelyn would've given anything too, to see the girl _leave_ , to have the gods take her _away_ , this living, breathing specimen of her husband's betrayal. 

She glared at the bastard child until she looked up. Tears glittered in her wide, fey eyes; the pale, lavender shade was unsettling in the gloom, like being watched by an otherworldly predator. 

"You have been with him long enough," she said stiffly, when they'd been sitting together for hours at end. "You can leave now." But they both knew it wasn't concern - it was a command. 

Sansa stared at her for a long moment. "I'm so sorry, my lady," she said, her voice cracked with disuse. Sansa had been the one to force Jon up, feed him drops of honey water. She had arranged for cloths and cold water, to wipe his brow and the sweat off his chest. She had said nothing all day, except when coaxing him to _drink a little, Jon, please, please, your promised to stay. Just a little, love._

Now, she scuttled off the bed, and curled into one of the armchairs by the fire. "I'll just be here. If you need anything."

"I won't need anything." _From you,_ but Catelyn didn't add that. She didn't have to. 

Sansa Snow bobbed her head, in agreement, looking very small and very tired in the firelight. She wiped her runny nose with the back of her hand, sniffing hard. "Just in case," she whispered, and then pulled up her legs to her chest, resting his head on the tops of her knobby knees, and closed her eyes. 

Catelyn fussed with Jon's bedclothes until the furs were tucked to his chin, like she had done when he was still young. She closed her eyes too, kneeling at his bedside, hands clasped on the coverlet. And, with the desperation of a mother who has seen the cruelties of disease and death, she prayed. 

* * *

 

His fever broke on the next day. The first word out his mouth was, 'Sansa?', whispered through a parched throat. 

But when Catelyn went to the armchair to rouse her, she found the child shivering and pale, paler even than a corpse, her body hotter than a furnace. Blood dripped out the side of her open mouth, staining the armrest crimson. Her prayers had been answered, after all, it seemed - the gods had chosen another. 

And Catelyn, who gathered the girl in her arms, who laid her on Jon's bed, where he cried out and curled himself around her, his breaths sharp and pained - Catelyn had never, _ever_ hated herself more. 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you like this chapter? If you did, hit kudos! <3


	3. don't go to war for me

####  _“You’re scared. What are you scared of?"  
\- Arya Stark, to Sansa Stark_

 

* * *

Three nights later, Sansa wakes. When she does, Jon is waiting by her side.  
Later, they’ll tell her that he never left the room, not in all that time. And neither did Catelyn Stark.

 

* * *

“Oh, and Sansa!" Frederick called from the last stall of Winterfell’s sprawling stables.

“Yes, Master Freddie?" she asked, whacking her skirts clean vigourously as she wound her to him through the stables, breathing in the welcome aroma of oats and hay and horse.

"Do you mind making a trip to the forge, girl? We've got some nails and bit that need repairing."

Sansa _did_ mind, _very much,_ but what could she say to him? 'I don't want to go because Glenn York _'looks at me’_?' She'd be laughed right out of Winterfell.

So she says, ‘Of course, Master Frederick,' with her friendliest smile, and grabs the basket of dulled metal, asking the old gods and the new for a little strength, a little courage. A little bit of whatever they gave Jon and Arya Stark.

 

* * *

Sansa leaves the forge at a dead run. 

He skirts whip around her, air whistling icily through her nostrils, turning her insides chilled. She gasps, stumbling over her own feet but never stopping, clutching the ripped bodice of her gown closed. Tear tracks run down her face, and there is a new, blossoming pain around her hips, where _his_ fingers had dug into her bared skin.

She has never felt so _desecrated_ \- so  _vile._

 

* * *

"Do you hate me?" Sansa asks Arya the next day, cornering the younger girl on her way to the kitchens. 

Arya frowns.

" _Do you?_ " Sansa demands, the urgency in her voice something she has always tried so hard to keep hidden.  
"I don't hate you," Arya finally says, as though whatever she feels for Sansa comes very, _very_ close.

But that's alright. It's good enough.

"Why did you learn how to use a sword?" Sansa asks her next.  
Arya gapes at her. "What- What does it matter to _**you?!**_ "

"Because," Sansa says, nervously looking away, "I'd like to learn as well."

Lady Arya Stark's mouth falls open, as she blinks rapidly. It stays that way for a long time.

 

* * *

“What’s wrong?"

Jon threw another stone into the lake. And another. And another. None of them even skipped once, dropping like boulders to the lakebed.

“The King is coming to Winterfell,” Jon spat. He chucked another rock in, this one as big as his fist.

Sansa stopped by him, staring out across the lake. Their breaths came in white little puffs, mingling in the still air.

“You aren’t… pleased? It’s been a long time since we’ve had guests."  
“There’s only one of two reasons he could come,” Jon muttered darkly. “Either he’s coming to name Father Hand-"  
Sansa gasped. “What, Hand to the _King?!"_

“Aye. Lord Arryn is dead.” There’s a dark red flush creeping along the bridge of his nose, as his breath puffs in sharp, angry exhalations.  
“And what is the other reason?"  
“They want to make an alliance,” he cursed, and Sansa stiffened, a vise around her throat, the air snatched from her lungs.

“An alliance?” she asked, faintly.  
“Marriage.” And it was as if the blood in her veins had been replaced by ice, like a wight from Old Nan’s terrible stories.  
“Your marriage,” Sansa repeated, trying to imagine a beautiful princess by Jon’s side, a woman to share his life, share his laughter… share his kisses. She was breathing as if she'd been running, the tight bands of her corset holding her prisoner, numbing her mind.

She laughed, then, airless and shocked and unhappy. “Marriage to a princess, Jon Stark. You ought to be celebrating!” she sang, false cheer in every syllable.

“I don’t _want_ a bloody princess,” he snapped, turning to her, finally, finally. His eyes were bleak with pain, nostrils flared, hands curled into fists. “I want _you.”_

And this is how he first kisses her, dragging her into his warm, flushed body, their mouths colliding in fear and desperation, gripping her waist like iron bands, cupping her at the nape like he can’t bear to let her go.

 

* * *

“No, no, _no!_ You’re doing it wrong!” Arya snaps, for the fifteenth time in a row, when Sansa’s arrow flies right over the target.

Sansa’s training has - to not put too fine a point on it - _not_ been going well.

“Well, then, tell how me to do it right!” Sansa yells back, glaring at the little lady, who’s all red in the face, nose wrinkled up and grey eyes flashing.  
“I am! You’re not _listening!”_ Arya shrieks, shoving at Sansa’s shoulders.

“Or maybe," Sansa snarls viciously, "you’re just a shite teacher!”  
Arya’s eyes widen, as she staggers back as if under the weight of Sansa’s words. _Fuck_ , Sansa thinks. _Oh no, oh bloody, everloving fu-_ “I’m sorry!” Sansa cries out, bow dropping from numb fingers, cold lines of fear trickling down her back as Arya goggles at her. “Please,” she whispers, “you _can’t_ tell Lady Stark, I’m sorry, I truly, truly-"

“Well, well, well,” a new voice drawls. “What do we have here?"  
Theon Greyjoy saunters into the small yard, a long straw of hay sticking out the side of his mouth. It lurches as he talks, keeping time like a poorly-wound metronome. _Up, down, up, down._ The Ironborn boy smirks at them, at the painfully obvious guilt painted across Sansa’s features, the belligerent defiance on Arya’s.

“Are you teaching the bastard girl how to _shoot?_ ” he asks, incredulously, a little smile hitched in the corner of his mouth. “Gods, Arya, you’re being very naughty aren’t you? What _would_ Lord Stark say?"

Arya sticks her nose up, placing herself firmly between Theon and Sansa. “What Father doesn’t know won’t bother him.” She glares at him, eyes narrowed. _“Will it?”_ she demands, her voice colder than the North itself. And in that moment, a strange, new desire crystallizes in Sansa's heart - a deep, _aching_ wish that Arya Stark was her true sister. How wonderful would it be, to have such a fierce young woman _always_ by her side?

Theon chuckles, spitting out the straw, and rolling up his sleeves. “True enough,” he shrugs, and Arya visibly deflates with relief, before looking to Sansa.

“You know, San,” Theon continues, conversationally, "you aren’t going to have a lot of use for bows and arrows.” He cocks a ruddy brow, grinning, “Unless you’re planning to ride off to battle?"

Sansa rolls her eyes. _‘San,’_ he always calls her, and Sansa’s never minded, not much. Theon may be an idiot, but they did grow up together and he’s a good friend, usually. “You know what you really need help in?"

“Pray tell, my lord,” she drawls. “It’s not like we lowly serfs can stop you,” she mutters, and Arya giggles, eyes crinkling up just like Jon’s. She’s - she’s _sweet_ , is Arya Stark, and Sansa wonders how it’s taken her eight  _years_ to notice.

“Hand-to-hand combat.” He shifts to a deceptively lazy fighting stance, eyes brimming with mirth. “Would you like a little instruction, _Ser_ Sansa?"  
Sansa shifts, bracing her feet more firmly on the ground, as Arya scurries to the edge of the yard, bow and quiver in hand. She smiles at Sansa, settling on a stump, eyes glittering in anticipation. Sansa grins back.

 

* * *

Sansa doesn’t remember a time, since she turned four, that she didn’t wonder about her mother. It is a shadow she bears, a stone at the bottom of her stomach - and she carries it with her always, everywhere, this ghostly remnant of her past, a face of a woman shrouded in darkness, the sound of forgotten laughter echoing around them. 

Sometimes, when it grows too heavy, she lights a candle in the dead of the night, shuffling over to a looking-glass, her thick, woollen robe pulled tightly around her to ward off the chill. She peers into the eyes of her reflection, and looks at herself, at her pale, northern skin and her hair, the color of old blood, so unlike the Tully scarlet, and her odd, violet gaze, and she wonders if she looks like her mother.

For she certainly looks _nothing_ like Eddard Stark.

 

* * *

Sansa decks Jon on the jaw with a swift, expert uppercut, thumb tucked down, wrist held firm, her strength flowing from her back and not her shoulder. Theon would’ve been proud. The force of her blow sends her stumbling backwards too, hands flying to her mouth where she can still taste him, apples and snow and _Jon_. 

 _“What in the seven hells is wrong with you?!"_ she screams, her voice echoing across the lake.

Jon strides back to her, flexing his jaw, wincing, barely restrained violence flashing in his eyes. “You want me,” he whispers. “I want you."

“I’m your sister!” she cries, desperately, and when he steps closer to her, the warmth of him like a brand across her body, she knows he has noticed how she doesn’t _deny_ it. And she _can’t_. You never lie in the godswood.

“ _Half_ -sister,” he mutters against her mouth, pushing her against a weirwood, kissing her again, in soft, gentle sips, a hard thigh insinuating between her legs, kissing her like he wants to steal her breath away.

“No,” she sobs, pushing ineffectively at him, and then wrenching away, turning her face away. But he only trails kisses down her neck, hands moving restlessly down her sides, pushing her harder, tugging her closer. 

She grabs his hair, pulling cruelly at the back of her neck, until he looks at her once more, the grey of his eyes swallowed up by black. “What would Arya think, if she saw us like this, Jon? What would Robb? _Bran?_ "

“I don’t _care_ ,” he growls back, arms bracketing her face against the pale trunk. 

“What would Father think?” she continues relentlessly. “You _can’t_ do this. _We_ can’t.” She breaks their held gaze, mouth twisting angrily. “What the hell do you think we are?” she snaps, finally, eyes fixed at his throat, watching him swallow painfully, as her heart trips a little too fast.  _"Targaryens?”_

She spits the name like a curse.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you like this chapter? If you did, hit kudos! <3


	4. god, sing for the hopeless

####  _“The things I do for love.”_

####  _\- Jaime Lannister, to Cersei Baratheon_

* * *

 

 

“Why does Bran have to go? He’s only _nine_ , Ned."

“If Sansa can stomach an execution, he can, as well,” Lord Stark said gruffly. The sound of laughter and shouts rise from the yard. It seems Arya has disrupted another of Bran’s archery lessons. “He won’t be a boy forever, Cat. And winter is coming."

Seven help her, she _hated_ the Stark words.

“Why does the g- _Sansa_ have to go?"

“Sansa found the man, Cat. Held him until the guards could take the deserter to the gaol. She ought to be there, when he receives his sentence."

Something cold slithered in her belly as she heard this account. Sansa had been different, the change subtle and nearly unnoticeable - but Cat had been watching her with growing disquiet of late. Cat _noticed_. The way she dressed these days, in somber, dark colors, as if she’d like to fade into the walls of the keep itself; the way she smiled at Arya now - and the way Arya smiled back. The way she flinched from men other than her sons, the way her back stiffened painfully erect.

There was something about her that was colder, sharper now, a quiet, blade-like intensity; Cat misliked it immensely.

“She held a man _twice_ her size? A man who had trained with the Night’s Watch? _How?!"_

Ned sighed. In the yard, Theon sat down next to Sansa, and she whispered something to him, laughing openly when he blushed. Jon stared at her, a look of open distraction in his gaze. 

“They say she held a blade to his neck, until the men arrived. A blade fresh from the forge, and yet, she wasn’t even burned. It’s not like these men, to tell stories, and I saw her hands myself. Smooth as ever."

Ned pastes on a smile, waves to Bran when the boy looks up, face shining happily. It disappears like smoke, when the little one looks away, launching himself after Arya once more with a furious warcry. "I do not know, my love. I can hardly believe it myself."

Catelyn recalls another story she had heard from the smallfolk - of how Glenn York had taken a terrible stumble in the forge, how he’d gotten his beautiful face burned all down the side. But no burn like that came from a fall, a burn as if he had been pressed into the coals for long, horrifying minutes.

And she remembers another part to that story - one that she had revealed to no one - that the last person to have left the smith’s that day had been… Had been _Sansa Snow._

But then Maester Luwin arrived, with words of a raven from King’s Landing. Jon Arryn was dead, and Cat thought about Sansa no more.

 

* * *

“Don’t look away,” Jon says to her and Bran, just before the sword swings, as the man blubbers incoherently about fairy tales, about nightmares come to life, walking among the icy woods north of the wall. “Father will know if you do."

 

Bran doesn’t look away. He flinches, _hard_ , but he doesn’t look away. Sansa doesn’t either.  
And on their way back, they discover a dead stag, a dead direwolf and five beautiful, motherless puppies.

“Please, my lord,” Sansa says softly, in a way she wouldn’t have dared to before. “There are five pups, and there are five Stark children. The direwolf is a sigil of your house. They are meant to have them."

Lord Stark relents, and Robb watches her curiously, carrying two pups tucked under each arm, back to the horses.

“What about you?” Bran asks plaintively, and she ruffles his hair, smiling a slight, crooked smile.  
“I’m not a Stark,” she tells him quietly.

But then Jon discovers the littlest pup, a pale white thing, with blood-red eyes. He hands his squirming grey bundle to Sansa, a mischievous little-boy smile on his face, one that he wipes clean when Lord Stark looks back, raising the runt of the litter above his head. 

“I think I’ll call him Ghost,” he calls out and Ned Stark rolls his eyes, sheathing his sword and walking away.

 

* * *

“Theon!” Sansa calls, nudging open the door to his bedchamber with a sideways swing of her hips, hands laden with a breakfast tray. “Get _up!_ The King will be here in _five bloody minutes,_ you idiot, and- Oh! Hello."

 

There is a woman lounging in Theon’s bed - with the man himself missing altogether - a stunning, voluptuous curve of a woman, and she is very, very naked. Sansa peeks out at the corridor, and quietly closes the door behind her, setting the tray on a chest of drawers. 

“You must be Ros,” Sansa says cautiously. Theon’s favourite whore.

“I must,” the woman agrees, a searching little smile painted on her lovely features, her dark hair tumbling in disarray around her heart-shaped face. She rises from the bed, without a trace of self-consciousness, her breasts gleaming in the silvery sunlight, her stomach flat, her hips generous and her legs, endless. 

Sansa gasps, whirling around, and Ros’ laughter fills the room, a full, throaty sound of amusement. 

There is a rustle of fabric, and then Sansa hears her say, “Turn around, darling. I’m decent."

She’s in a pale shift, cotton and unembroidered and a little frayed. Ros hands her a dark, maroon corset, and Sansa helps her into it, tugging the laces tightly when Ros turns around, her hands braced around a bedpost. They are quiet for the length of this simple, feminine ritual, and then Ros turns back to her, her full breasts pushed above the corset in a display so lovely, Sansa stops breathing for a moment.

“You’re the bastard,” Ros murmurs. Sansa stiffens, drawing her eyes up to meet Ros’ squarely.

_Never show weakness._

She doesn’t reply, and Ros’ brow arches upwards. “Did I offend you, bastard?” she asks, sounding a little incredulous, a little bemused.

“I don’t like that word.” Sansa’s spine is harder than steel.

Ros smiles. “Let me give you some advice, my sweet bastard child,” she replies silkily, tucking a long, loose strand of red hair behind Sansa’s ear, cool fingers trailing down her neck. “Never forget what you are. The rest of the world will not.” Her hand trails lower, past the curve of a breast, thumb passing a tight nipple. “Wear it like armor,” she murmurs, “And it can never be used to hurt you."

Sansa exhales shakily. _Never- never show-_

“What the _hell_ do **_you_** know about being a bastard?” Sansa snaps, her fingers digging into the palms of her hands.

Ros glides away from her, pulling on a long, wine red woollen gown, her smile seraphic and undisturbed. “Nothing, my dear. But I don’t like the word ‘whore’ either. And yet…” Her mirthless, strangely unhappy laughter echoes in the room, even after she closes the door behind her.

 

* * *

The king arrives, the queen arrives. Her brothers too, the pretty one with hard eyes, and the little one with his sorrowful gaze. The princes, one older, with a proud, cruel smile, swaggering about like his cock was dragging on the ground with every step. And the other; younger, sweeter. Shyer.

 

Sansa barely registers any of it, in the face of this princess that looks like she stepped out of a fairytale. Myrcella Baratheon is _beautiful_ ; lovely in the way they only describe in songs, with hair like spun gold, and eyes brighter than emeralds, a face like an angel and a high, lilting laugh. 

Sansa thinks about this, the night after the feast, wincing when she shifts in her bed, an enormous, purpling bruise blooming across her stomach and most of her hip. They’ve shifted to swords, her and Arya and Theon. It’s been slow, and painful, and hard, but Sansa likes it. She’s good at it too, better by miles than Theon. It makes her feel- clean. 

She thinks about Myrcella Baratheon’s hands, as she braids her hair, how they must be soft and white and pretty, as something yawning and _empty_ opens up in her gut, a wound that festers and never heals. Nothing like her own hands, with ruddy callouses from holding a sparring sword in a secret yard, and lifting soup pots in a steaming kitchen, and dragging the dogs to the kennels at the end of a hunt. She wonders if Jon will grow to love Myrcella Baratheon’s hands better, and then she must press a tightly closed fist against her mouth, hot tears falling into her pillow, jealousy and despair roiling in her gut.

And then, the next day, Bran falls from a tower; Bran, whose footing is surer than a cat’s, who doesn’t stumble on a tightrope, let alone a sturdy crenellation. And nothing else matters anymore.

 

* * *

“Why’d you say that, before?” Bran asks her, later that evening, after they have returned to the keep from the beheading, after the pups have been distributed amongst the children. They’re on the steps to the Broken Tower, the sky turning a deep purple as the sun withdraws. Bran has named his pup Summer, but Sansa isn’t certain what to name hers.

 

_Lady,_ a perverse part of her mind suggests, giggling hysterically. _Name her Lady._  Sansa’s lips curve up in a secret smile at the thought. _A Lady direwolf._ Sansa’s not sure she wants her _**dog**_ be to be higher-ranking than herself. 

“Why did I say what?” Sansa asks Bran, scratching her direwolf behind the ear, who growls happily, turning stomach up, and wriggling her paws, a bright pink tongue lolling happily out the side of her mouth.

“That you aren’t a Stark."

Sansa looks up at him curiously. “Well. That’s quite obvious, isn’t it? Besides, I hardly even look like a Stark."

Bran frowns at her, setting Summer aside, who promptly begins chasing his own tail, barking madly. Sansa’s pup wriggles out of her lap, chasing her brother, yipping and snarling. 

“You _do_ look like a Stark,” Bran insists. 

Sansa twirls a lock of her oxblood hair around a long finger, smirking. “Oh look,” she drawls at an imaginary audience. “The boy’s finally gone daft. And blind too. What, did you fall off somewhere high and hit your head?"

“You _do_ , stupid, I’m not _blind_."

“Hey!” She protests, tweaking his ear, as he howls in pain. “Don’t call me stupid."

Bran rubs his ear furiously, pouting. “You look _exactly_ like Aunt Lyanna,” he mutters. “Well, except for the eyes. I suppose you must have your mother’s eyes," and Sansa’s mouth falls open. “What? Hasn’t anyone ever told you?"

“I- Uh, no. _No_ , they haven’t. I do?"

“Yeah, ‘course you do. Hair that colour - that comes from the North, you know. Wilding red."

“It does? I do? …what?"

It’s Bran’s turn to smirk then, but he’s a sweet boy, as sweet as Rickon even if he’s mad for climbing things, the idiot. He laces his fingers through hers, tugging her up. “Come on,” Bran says, grinning at her awestruck expression. “There’s a little painting of her in Father's solar. I’ll show you."

 

* * *

Bran Stark will survive, Maester Luwin said later, as he did once before, many years ago, for another Stark boy who hovered at death’s door. If he lives through the night, Bran will wake again.

 

And Catelyn thinks, bitterness and sorrow and anger curdling in her gut at the cruelty of the gods, _'Of course. Of course Sansa Snow will sit through the night with this boy too.’_ His limp, cool hand stays clasped to her stomach, her neck remains bowed in prayer, as Catelyn tastes something acrid in her mouth.  _'Sansa Snow has always watched over the Starks.'_

Sansa’s gaze meets hers, briefly; her strange purple eyes dry and reddened.

Catelyn knew another woman with eyes like that, in another lifetime, long, long ago. Lady Ashara Dayne of Starfall. A lady-in-waiting to the Princess Elia, in a time when dragons had ruled over Westeros. A woman who had jumped to her death from Palestone Tower.

And a rumor… A rumor that followed her death, of a broken heart, a stolen child.  
Eddard had brought a child to Winterfell, too, bare weeks later, with red hair like the corpse of his dead sister, and those unnerving, purple eyes.

This time however, Catelyn doesn’t bother asking Sansa to leave Bran’s side. There is no force, on heaven or Earth or the hells below, she knows, that could shake either of them from this room.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you like this chapter? If you did, hit kudos! <3


	5. hide your sin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A man finds his lover, a woman plots treason and a girl defends her people.

 

 

 

####  _"Speaking for the grotesques, I have to disagree. Death is so final, yet life is full of possibilities._  
  
_I hope the boy does wake._  
_I'd be very interested to hear what he has to say."_  
  
_\- Tyrion Lannister, to Cersei Baratheon and Jaime Lannister_

* * *

 

 

 

Jon walked into his bedchamber, jittery and exhausted.

"Is it done?" a voice asked, and Jon spun on his heel, at a crouch, whipping out a knife on sheer, driving instinct. 

"Sansa," he breathes, heart thundering, when he sees his intruder, a bemused smile on her face, her hair loose and cascading around her, the tip of her forefinger resting on the point of the blade. "Bloody _hell_ , woman," he growls, drawing back the dagger and sheathing it once more, as a drop of crimson blood wells from the tip of her finger. She pops it into her mouth, cheeks hollowing out as she sucks, and for a brief second Jon barely even breathes, cock twitching in his breeches. "I could've cut you."

Sansa smiles, cocking a brow, and for a long, strange moment, Jon thinks the tip of his dagger glows molten orange where it's wet with her blood. He blinks, tiredly, and the steel is a dull grey once more. He's _seeing_ things, bloody hell. 

"A little warning next time," he grumbles, throwing his cloak aside and settling on the edge of his bed, bending to work at the laces of his boots. 

"Is it done?" she repeats, gently, coming to lean against the bedpost closest to him, the scent of lemon and honey filling his mouth. "Did you speak to Lord Stark?"  
"Aye," he reports, chucking the boots away, and working on the top buttons of the jerkin. "Father doesn't like it, but he understands. You've spoken to the little ones?"  
"Yes," she says, slapping his hands away when he fumbles with the knots to tug the leather open. "They don't like it either, but Robb will mention something to Tyrion. Arya will put word out amongst the smallfolk in the entourage, and Theon will deal with the nobility. With any luck, Bran's would-be killer will snap up the bait."

She pushes the jerkin off his shoulder, a homespun cotton shirt underneath. "There," she murmurs. "Done." She picks up her skirts, bobs a little curtsey like a good chambermaid. "Will that be all, Lord Jon?"

He grins, feral and savage and- _gods_. Sansa's fingers clench in the folds of her dress. _Gods, but he is_ blindingly _handsome. How is she supposed to_ resist _him?_

"No," he says, and wraps a big hand around her wrist, jerking her forward so she falls into him, gasping, her eyes shocked and wide, a knee coming to rest on the mattress along his thigh, her hands braced on his wide shoulders. "Not yet, my love."

 

* * *

"Can we call this done, Ned?" the King demands, swilling his wine as the fire dies down, the first light of dawn creeping over the horizon outside, lighting up the solar. "Do you accept?"

 

 

They have been awake most of the night. 

"You do me great honor with your offer, your Grace."

"That's not an answer, Ned," the King mutters. "Damn you, I get enough of this at the capital- I don't need it from you too. Stop meandering about and tell me true. Do you agree to the betrothal?"

 

* * *

"What- _No_ -" she gasped, but he dragged her mouth down to his, cupping the back of her neck, the arm around her waist holding her prisoner to his strength. 

 

 

"I don't know how this ends," he murmurs against her lips, something pained in his voice, sharply tugging at the laces of her bodice, letting them fall open. "But I- Not without you. I can't do this, without you."

“Jon," she said severely - or at least, with a faintly credible attempt at severity, reduced by the fact that Sansa's gown was gaping open at the neck, the front sagging down to reveal how far down her chest her flush travelled, her nipples budding in the wintry morning air. 

“Yes, love?" he murmured into the slope of her neck, as she tangled her fingers in his hair, hips helplessly grinding down to meet him. 

“Jon," she repeated, the severity drained. Her petticoats had been shoved up between them, letting him rock upwards into her core. She blinked, befuddled. _When had that happened?_

"I love how you say name," he whispered, stealing soft, little kisses from her, like sips of sugary fizz. 

"You- you do?" she asked, stealing away from the ravage of his talented mouth, tugging his collar down to reveal the strained cords of his neck, absently licking her lips. A flush covered the bridge of his nose, and his breath fell against her cheek in sharp, hard puffs. _Gods_ , she wanted to keep him just like this, aching for her. She ducked away from his dark, heady gaze, and drew her teeth along the raised muscles that strained from nape to shoulder, drawing a shuddering groan from above her. His hands clamped like a vise around her waist, hips driving up to where she was gorgeously wet. The pleasure of it burned, blazing through her veins, blacking out all sensation, except this - the heat of his grip just beneath her ribs, the bite of his teeth clamped around her shoulder like some wild, Dornish beast, the acute, impatient pressure of his hardness at the wet heart of her. She was going to _die_ of this; she was going to die of _him_.

_What a way to go,_ she thought, giggling drunkenly. 

He lifted up to look at her, blinking blearily, before kissing the tip of her pink nose. "Look at you," he said, voice hoarse and low. “Gods, you're _lovely_."

 

* * *

"It is done," Ned says, sounding dull, defeated. "Myrcella and Jon will wed, once she is of age."

 

 

"Good," Robert sighs, gulping down the Arbor gold like a tavern ale. “Good. The girl will stay with your family, until she's blooded. And then I _will_ have a wedding, Ned. A Baratheon and a Stark."

Ned wonders if Jon will forgive him. 

But then, how could he not? Men in their position never married for love - but perhaps he would come to love her, someday. If they were truly lucky, perhaps what Ned had found with Cat, Jon Stark would find with Myrcella Baratheon. 

And even as he thinks it, he knows his hope was false. That boy had already found his love.

 

* * *

She grinned, hands slipping down the length of his spine and past the seam of his trousers, urging him shyly. She watched his eyes blow open in sudden, vehement hunger. “Darling," he groaned, pressing his sweat-damp forehead to hers. His hands rushed down and she felt them tremble rather gratifyingly as he fumbled with the tapes of her drawers. The heat of his voice rushed to center down at her core, and she rocked against him impatiently, mindlessly. 

 

 

“Sansa," he muttered, all sweetness gone. "Sansa, sweet girl, _please_ ," he said, holding her hips still. "I'm not going to last, love."

 _“Don't,"_ she begged. “Don't, then." She knew she wasn't going to. 

He chuckled, as if in pain. “No," he said, pressing a hard kiss against her temple. "Waiting makes it better. I promise."

She dug her nails into the bottom of his spine, and felt a gratifying lurch forward, the pressure, the heat of him perfect against her. _If it gets any better,_ she swore, _I'll die._

Shaking, she pulled her fingers to the front of his trousers, popping the clasp free, tugging it past his erection as her own drawers were ripped off and tossed to the side. She gasped at the sight of him, trying and failing not to sound appallingly virginal. He tugged her up, and obligingly, she wrapped her legs around his hips. And then his fingers were there- and- oh _gods_. 

 

* * *

“Incidentally,” Tyrion comments, ruffling Tommen’s hair, and piling his breakfast plate with eggs and bacon, “The boy woke.” Winterfell’s walls are cheery with the sound of a keep coming to life in the early morning, but none of it is apparent here, in the Great Hall, in the gloom that palls over the royal party.

 

 

Cersei goes preternaturally still. "And did he have anything interesting to say, after all?"

Tyrion shrugs, buttering his toast with all the devoted attention of a smith crafting a brand new sword. "Apparently so," he says casually. "The maester sent out several ravens just this morning."

Tyrion chomps noisily on the dark, bittersweet bread, before downing his ale, and pretends not to notice the fearful, tense glances she and his brother share over the table. The way Jaime's hand twitches to where his his scabbard normally hangs. _Ah, his twins, so fair and yet so full of terrors._

“It's good then," Cersei says with a studied casualness so well-crafted, Tyrion thinks it would have truly fooled almost anyone else, "that his mother was with him, to see him wake."

"Not sure it was Lady Stark he spoke to, actually."

"What?" Cersei grits out, knuckles going visibly white around the silverware. 

"The whole family's been in and out of his rooms all day. He might've spoken to any of them, before he slipped back into his sleep. They say he’ll never walk again."

"I see," Cersei finally says. _Do you?_ Tyrion wants to ask. _And what do you see, dear sister? Do tell._

* * *

Sansa moaned, a low, rough, breaking sound as his arm insinuated between their bodies, his thumb found that aching little nub, grazing it but never touching. He drew moisture from her centre, drawing back to circle, circle, over and over. She whimpered, thrashing, legs tightening around him. He pushed in, one finger, then two, and she ground against him shamelessly, head thrown back, hands clutching at his shoulder as her whole world whirled on its axis.

“Fuck me,” she gasped, and his whole body stilled. She rocked herself on his fingers again, helpless and _mad_ , so mad for him. “Please, _please_ , fuck me-"

He spun them around, hands wrapping around her waist to toss her onto his bed, pulling off his breeches and shirt, while she sprawled, her breasts catching the dawning sunlight, her skirts rucked up to her waist, her fingers buried in her cunt, rocking against the heel of her hand, savouring the way he watched her, fire burning in his dark eyes.

He crawled over her, looming, his weight braced on his forearms. His head dropped to her breasts, pushed up as they were towards him, spilling over her corset, soft and round and gleaming in the wan light, and she clutched him there, confessing, “I’m not a maiden. You don’t-“ She swallowed a scream when he bit down, as his mouth found her nipple, as his thumb massaged that hard, aching rosette. “You don’t need to be gentle, please, _please_ -"

“You’re not a virgin?” he asked, eyes wide and hurt.

Sansa’s mouth pulled, tensely. “What, and you are?"

“ _Yes!_ "

“Oh."

He kissed her again, harsher this time, punishing, fingers tugging hard at her nipple, plucking her like a viola, and she arched upwards into him, accepting the punishment. _God, what she wouldn’t have given for him to have been her first-_

“It doesn’t matter,” he said finally, broken and groaning. “I’ll be your last."

And he sank into her, hot and hard and unyielding, his mouth on hers, swallowing her screams as he took her for his own.

 

* * *

####  _Interlude  
The Lannisters_

* * *

 

 

 

“Hello, my lady."  
“Oh!” Catelyn gasps, rising to her feet from her seat beside Bran’s bed. “I beg your pardon, you grace. I should’ve dressed."  
“Not at all, my lady,” Cersei says, her voice soft with concern as she looks at Bran, his face small and pale above the furs. “This is your home. I’m your guest."

She settles on the bed, at the very edge, and across from her, Catelyn mirrors the queen. “He’s a handsome one, isn’t he?"  
Catelyn smiles wanly, smoothing his sweaty hair away from his forehead. “He is that, your grace."  
“I hear he woke? Last night?” Cersei asks, a mother’s sympathy in the way she watches Bran.  
“Yes, your grace. Briefly."

Cersei smiles at Catelyn, green eyes soft and kind. “That must have been a relief for you, my lady."

But the lady Stark looks away, fingers clenching briefly in the furs. “I wasn’t here,” she admits, her throat raw with unspoken guilt. “I stepped out, very briefly. He spoke to one of the children, I think."

“Oh,” the queen says. And for a long time, they don’t speak any more.

 

* * *

“They tell me you’re quite good with that."  
Jon looks up, idly tugging his leather gauntlet into place, the weight of a sparring sword and whetstone heavy on his lap, to see the Queen’s brother, Ser Jaime, standing above him. “I’m alright,” he allows.  
“Let’s find out,” Jaime offers with a grin, and there’s a rasp of metal as he unsheathes his sword slightly above the scabbard. The metal glints in the weak, winter sunlight.

 

 

Jon raises a brow. “I think not, my lord,” he says, chuckling softly. “I don’t have any wish to be embarrassed in front of all my father’s bannermen."  
“Oh, I’m sure you won’t be,” Jaime drawls, eyes twinkling. “Besides, what else is there to do?"

Jon smiles, beatific and remote, staring into the middle distance as he gets to this feet. “The keep doesn’t run itself, Ser.” His eyes dim, as he adds, “And I must see to Bran."

Jaime sheathes the sword, hands clasping behind his back as the two men fall into step exiting the armory, one dark and the fair, one cheery and the other somber. South and North, and they are in themselves, a crossroads. 

“How dutiful of you,” Jaime remarks dryly. “Would that we all had such loving brothers."  
Jon says nothing. _What is there to say?_  
“I hear the boy awoke. Last night."  
“Aye,” Jon says, his dark, Northern accent growing thicker. “A relief for everyone."  
“For you too, no doubt? Speaking to the boy after there were such… grave concerns for his health."

The young lord falters in his step briefly. “No,” Jon says shortly. “It wasn’t I who spoke to him. One of the boys was with him, I think. Robb… Might’ve been Rickon. Or perhaps Sansa."

 

* * *

“You must be Sansa."

 

 

Sansa stiffens, before breathing in deeply and rising to her feet. She turns around to see the princess, in a jade silk that sets off her eyes perfectly, looking for all the world like an impish little sprite that has stolen its way into the sacred godswoods.

_Never show weakness._

Sansa curtseys deeply. “Yes, your highness. It is an honour to meet you."

Myrcella smiles prettily, and there’s something very genuine about her, the easy way she holds herself. Someday, she will make some man a fine lady, Sansa thinks, and her stomach turns violently. _I don’t want a bloody princess! I want **you**. _ The place between her legs still aches for him.

“The honour is mine, Miss Snow,” the princess is saying graciously, and Sansa forces herself to pay attention. “I have been hearing your praises ever since I stepped foot in Winterfell. Arya and Robb and Rickon all love you very well.” She looks away, shyly. "Robb especially, he- he said such wonderful things about you."

At that, Sansa does smile, the expression feeling cracked and unfamiliar. There has been so little to be happy about, these last few days. “They’re good children,” Sansa agrees quietly.

“Even Bran spoke of you,” Myrcella admits, voice growing somber, the glow about her dying away. “Before-“ Her voice breaks off here, and she looks away, fingers clasping and twisting until they turn bone-white. “Is he- will he be alright?"

Sansa inhales shakily. “I- I don’t know, your highness. The maester says the worst has passed, but- but he will never walk again."

Myrcella gasps, fingers flying to her lips, her eyes glittering like polished jewels. “But he _woke_ ,” she insists tremulously. “They said he _woke._ "

“He did, princess. I came here to thank the gods for exactly that."

“What did he say? He wasn’t in _pain_ , was he?"

Sansa looks away, gazing for a long moment at the mournful, weeping face carved into the weirwood. “I do not know, princess. I don’t think so.” She meets the Baratheon girl’s teary gaze once more. “I wasn’t there, when he woke. He spoke to the little ones, perhaps. Or Lord Stark, most likely. I’m not certain."

 

* * *

Ned pored over the keep's ledgers, a candle guttering by the table, scrubbing his tired eyes. This duty fell to Cat, usually, but these were hardly usual times, what with the King’s offer and Jon’s betrothal and the Queen’s growing disdain of all things Northern.

 

 

And Bran’s fall… Now, there was a matter that-

“Lord Stark?” a little voice asked, jolting him out of his reverie, and Ned looked up to see the fair-haired face of the younger prince hovering uncertainly near the doorway.

“Your highness,” Ned greeted, getting up and walking to the boy. He placed a gentle hand on the young boy's shoulder, taking a knee before him so they were at eye-level. “Are you lost, prince?"

The boy shook his head, in rapid, jerky movements. “I was looking for you,” Tommen admits softly. There is nothing Baratheon about this boy, Ned notes almost idly. The fine bones, the fair hair, the bright green eyes. Cersei has branded each of her children with her mark. _These are Lannisters,_ their features seem to declare. _These are the lions of Casterly Rock._

“Looking for me? And why is that?"

“I was- I was wondering…” Tommen hesitates, eyes darting up to meet Ned’s before glancing away. “If I could see Bran? I haven’t seen him since he- since he fell.” These last words escape as a whisper, only audible because of how close they are.

“Of course, my prince,” Ned agrees softly, getting up to his feet. “Come with me. Although I must warn you, Bran continues to sleep."

Tommen looks up him, brow wrinkled. “I thought he woke up."

“He did,” Ned confirms, “but very briefly, your highness."

“Did you get to speak to him?” Tommen asks curiously, reminding Ned with a vehemence of how Arya had been, at this age. Always bursting with questions, about everything.

“No,” Ned says. “I was not at the keep. I believe he spoke to one of the girls. Sansa, most likely, though it might’ve been Arya."

“Oh,” Tommen murmurs, dejected. “That’s alright then."

 

* * *

“We need to get to lunch, sister mine. Our absence will be noted."

 

 

“Tell me, first."

“None of them were with him when he woke. None of them know what the boy said."

“No? Or perhaps, _all_ of them know. Three ravens are gone from the Maester’s tower, Jaime. Three. Gods alone know to whom they’ve been writing.”

“' _All_ of them know'? Cersei, the boy was bad enough; you _can’t_ be suggesting-"

“Can’t I?”

“The Starks have ruled Winterfell for eight _thousand_ years. We cannot _execute_ -"

“And what do you thinks happens, when they start spreading lies about Joffrey?” 

“The truth, you mean."

“They will _execute_ us. They will execute our _children_. If we do not end  _them_ -"

“This is murder!”

“This is the _game_. This is the **_only_** thing that matters. We win, or we die.” 

“And what about the people who have received their letters? What do we do when they come knocking at the Red Keep’s gates?” 

“They won’t live to tell their tales either. Joffrey _will_ be King. He _will._ ” 

“Seven hells, Cersei. Are you certain of this?” 

“I am. It will be done, tonight. Will you help?” 

“Ah, sweet sister.” Jaime kisses her brow, wrapping her in his arms, and Cersei let herself be held in his warm, familiar embrace. "Always.” 

 

* * *

But then Joffrey attacks a butcher’s boy, and the Lady Arya and her direwolf Nymeria leap to his defense, and their path takes another terrible curve.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you like this chapter? If you did, remember to hit kudos! <3


	6. who are you, that i must bow so low?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A girl runs, a man mourns and a boy discovers a truth.

####  _"I don't fight in tournaments._  
_Because when I fight a man for real, I don't want him to know what I can do."_  
  
_\- Eddard Stark, to Jaime Lannister_

* * *

 

 

"Where's the damned girl?!" the King roared. 

"Beg your pardon, your grace," one of the royal guardsmen said, bowing and scraping, "But we've looked for her everywhere. The men are combing the woods as we speak. She's disappeared, and her wolf too."

The man reaches back into the crowd, and drags another girl out by the hair, twisted around his fist like streams of blood. "This one was with them," he sneers, pushing her forward. "A bastard girl. Sansa Snow."

When the guard has let go of her, Sansa sinks into her loveliest, lowest, most graceful curtsey.

Never show weakness. 

The King levers himself out of his seat, stomping to her, grasping her painfully by the chin, and wrenching her face up to him. 

“ _Lyanna_ … By the Seven," he rasps. "You're the very spit of her. Who _are_ you, girl?"

"My daughter." Ned Stark storms into the room, his face darker than winter clouds. "Step away from her," he snarls, softly. "You're making an ass of yourself. Your Grace."

The King and the Lord lock eyes for a long minute above Sansa, before he waddles back to his makeshift throne, and Ned wraps an arm around her shoulder. 

"What is the charge against Sansa?"  
"Not against the bastard, Ned,” the King sighs. "Against your girl, Arya."  
“Arya? And what is Arya supposed to have done?"

"She attacked my son," Cersei informs him, her voice hoarse and sweet. "She, and her friend, set upon him with clubs, and she ordered her beast to attack him."

Sansa pales. The prince has been bold with his lies. Too bold.  
"She was there," Joffrey says, pointing at her with a shaky finger, damning her to this farce. "She was watching us and- and _laughing_."

King Robert snorts. "I'd laugh too, boy. You let a girl not ten years old disarm you?" Robert mocks, as the prince looks away, coloring splotchily, his skinny, rat-like hands curling into fists. 

"Is that what we're here for?" Ned mocks, angrily. "A squabble among children?"  
"Madness," Robert mutters. "They're children! Children fight!"

"The prince," Cersei interjects icily, "Will carry those scars for the rest of his _life_ ,” as Joffrey piteously clutches at his bloody arm. Fuck him, Sansa thinks savagely, and fuck the Queen too. "He deserves justice."

"Then deal with the damned wolf and be done with it!" he roars, getting up once more. “Get her a dog, Ned. A wolf is no pet. She'll be happier for it."

"Begging your pardon, your grace," the guardsman interjects. "But we haven't yet located the girl's direwolf."  
Cersei nearly smiles, then. "There's more than one dog," she says, looking right at Sansa, and the King, an enormous, blustering coward of a man - he says nothing. 

Sansa steps away from Lord Stark. 

"No." Her spine is straight, her gaze direct. Her voice does not tremble. Never show weakness. "My direwolf is _innocent_. She will be left _out of this_."

" _Sansa_ ," Ned hisses urgently, as the Queen's smile grows sharper, and she can almost see the blood on this beautiful woman's hands. 

"How _dare_ you," she croons venomously. "A bastard, and you speak in such a manner to your Queen?"

Sansa inhales, her mind clamouring, fire licking at her insides. "She is an _innocent_. She will be _spared_ ," Sansa hisses back, and the Queen nearly flinches. It makes Sansa feel- _warm_. 

"My god," Queen Cersei murmurs. "You're as much a beast as that dog of yours. You vile little _bitch_ -"

"Enough!" Robert snaps. "Where's her dog?"

And then Sandor Clegane strides into the room, his sword dripping with blood as Sansa goes still, stiller than a statue. She looks at his tired, glittering eyes, and asks, almost involuntarily, the words drawn from her throat from something else. "Who did you kill?" she rasps. 

"The butcher's boy," the Hound remarks casually.

"You ran him down?" Ned asks, his grip on Sansa's shoulder spasming in fury. 

The Hound shrugs, grinning. "He didn't run very fast."

_His name was Mycah._

"Not certain where 'er bitch is, your majesty,” the guard is blubbering to the king. "We'll have to look."  
"Don't bother,” Robert rumbles. "There's three other dogs. Find one and bring me a head. Let’s have this over.” 

_Never show- Never-_ "No!"  
All heads turn to Sansa, her face red, her eyes brimming with tears. 

“' _No_ '?" the King repeats, incredulously. 

Sansa breathes, in and out, in and out. "No," she says quietly. "I demand a trial by combat."

"You _**what**_?!" Ned bellows, as the barn explodes into whispers. But the King… the King _smiles_ , as if something he has long awaited has finally come to pass.

Sansa looks up at her father, and wonders as she always does, who the woman was who stole his heart. "Don't worry, Papa," she says, softly, and Ned staggers a little. She hasn't ever, not once in her entire life, called him Papa. “I know what I’m doing."

Sansa meets the Queen's cold, jeweled gaze, and steps forward. "You have a Hound you'd like to keep. I have six direwolves I'd like to save." She smiles, a pretty, empty smile that never reaches her eyes, as she tilts her head to the side, blinking slowly, deliberately. She looks, Sansa knows, like something out of a strange, vivid nightmare.

“Come, come, your grace,” she says softly, but the barn has fallen to an absolute hush, and Sansa's voice carries perfectly. “Let’s give the people what they want. 

"Let’s have ourselves a dogfight."

* * *

 

 

“Sansa!” a voice had cried out, earlier that morning, and Sansa had gasped when a small dark-haired blur collapsed into her middle. 

“Arya?” she asked, hesistantly wrapping her arms around her little sister, whose whole body wracked with terrible gasps. “Oh gods,” she murmured, realization dawning in a wash of icy fear, "they came for you too, didn’t they?"

Arya looked up at her, eyes blown wide in terror, the whites of her eyes showing. “Who?"

“The Lannisters,” Sansa snarls. “You and Robb - you’re the only ones left. And I’ve kept him by my side all day.” 

She takes a knee before her sister, hands on her shoulders, meeting her gaze steadily. “Who was it? Which one came?"

“Joffrey,” Arya whispers, and Sansa barely controls the shiver that runs down her body. 

“The prince came,” she repeats dumbly.

Arya nods, hard. “I hit him,” she confesses.

Sansa blinks, her heart beating so fast she can hardly breathe, or think, or feel. “The prince came, and you… You hit him.”  _Hard eyes,_ she thinks worriedly. _Hard, cruel eyes._

“It wasn’t my fault!” Arya shouts, stamping her foot. “He hurt Mycah! Cut him open, with his stupid sword! And then he was going to hurt me, so I hit him and I took his sword, and then he tried to attack me again, and then Nymeria scared him away!” Sansa can feel whole whole body trembling like a leaf in a storm, in rage and terror and abject misery. “It wasn’t my _fault_!"

They’re going to _come_ for her. They're going to come for _Nymeria_. _They always come for the weak._

“You need to go,” Sansa says, rising to her feet, and whistling for her direwolf. 

“What?” Arya asks, her brow crinkled up as Nymeria and Sansa's direwolf pad up to them on enormous, silent paws.

“Go, run to the woods,” Sansa says, scanning the horizon. The weather will hold, thank the Seven. “Go with my direwolf, and with Nymeria, and stay there."

“To the woods? Why?!” Arya’s shaking again, her mouth turning mulish and obstinate. “I don’t want to go! I’m not afraid!"

Sansa slaps her. 

“You _should_ be. They will _hurt_ you. They will hurt _Nymeria_.” Arya gapes at her, hand cupping a red cheek, hurt and shocked, but there’s no time for apologies, no time- “She is your responsibility. Are you ready to bury her because of your **_pride_**?!"

There are tears welling in Arya’s eyes, and Sansa wants to scream at her, _Grow up! Grow up! The world is harder than you know._

She drags Arya into her arms, in a hug that is not gentle, not kind, pressing a hard kiss to the top of her head, before pushing her away. “Go,” she whispers, urgent. “Go, little one, and do not return until tomorrow. I will come for you."

And she looks at her direwolf, her great, grey protector, burying her face briefly in the soft ruff of her collar. “Keep her _safe_ ,” she commands. “Keep them _both_ safe.” The beast licks her chin, the way she had done when she was a wee pup, tiny enough to fit in Sansa’s lap. 

They run, then, all three of them, into the dark wintry woods; Arya and her Nymeria, and the direwolf Sansa had never named.

And then the Lannister guards came for Sansa, and dragged her to the Queen.  _Never show weakness._

* * *

 

 

“What the hell is _wrong_ with you?"

Sansa doesn’t look up, strapping a leather brace to her forearm, bending at the waist to lace up her boots. Jon wrenches her up, slamming her body to his. “Have you lost your bloody mind?"

“Let go of me,” Sansa says, hands loosely held at her sides, her mind a blank haze of nothing. 

“You can’t fight the Hound,” Jon snarls at her, his hands turning tighter around her arms. He’s going to bruise her, and she hasn’t even lifted a sword.

“How strange, my lord,” Sansa murmurs, placidly. “Because I’m just about to do that."

"I've only just- We've only just _begun_. Let me fight him. Name me your champion," he begs. "Let me fight him instead."

Sansa softens, running a hand down his jaw, tracing the contours of his handsome face, the Stark nose, the high Tully cheekbones, the full softness of his lips. She kisses him, just once, never closing her eyes. And then again, almost helplessly, his mouth opening under hers. "You'll die," she murmurs against his lips, sharing their heat, sharing their breath. "I must fight him myself, Jon."

“ ** _You’ll_** die!” he curses, his voice breaking. “And for what? For a _dog_?! It isn’t worth it!” 

“The direwolf is a sigil of your Hou-"

“I don’t give a damn!” he roars.

“He killed Mycah!” she screams back. "The Hound rode him down and skewered him open! Like a pig!"

Jon staggers, eyes going wide.

“A child. A twelve-year old child. Where is the justice for him, Lord Jon? Because your King,” she spits the word, “doesn’t give a damn."

Jon breathes, slowly, shakily. “You said once that you wouldn’t survive it, if anything happened to me.” He looks at her, something violent in his eyes. “Do you remember?"  
Sansa struggles to inhale, squeezing her eyes shut.  
But he continues, heedless. “You think I’ll survive? You think I’ll be able to live? Without you?"

When she opens her eyes again, the whole world is blurred, a film of tears obscuring his lovely, familiar face. She rises on her toes, cupping his jaw, and kisses him again, hard, this time, and fierce and quick, as his arms wrap around her. Sansa touches their foreheads together, their breaths rising hot and fast between them. “You won’t have to. I swear it. 

"Jon," she whispers, kissing him again and again, fingers clenching in the lapels of his jerkin, their bodies pressed so close, as if they want to be one soul, "please. If you love me, there's one more thing I need you to do."

* * *

 

 

"What are you doing here?" Robb snaps, and she gasps, stumbling off the stump before regaining control, and turning to him, all golden curls and bright, green eyes. 

"My lord," she whispers, eyes wide. "I- I'm so sorry- I don't mean to intrude, truly."

His nostrils flare angrily. "No," he bites off. "I'm sure you don't, princess."

She fidgets, fingers digging into the folds of her gown. "I- I'm sorry. I just needed some... distance from my family, and the godswood seemed so peaceful..." Myrcella Baratheon sighs. "I can leave. I don't want to disturb your prayers."

He scoffs, leaning against a weirwoods and staring off into the distance, trying to hide the furious beat of his heart. "Leave, stay. I don't give a damn."

"Then I'll stay," she says softly, settling back down, arranging her skirts around her. "Thank you, my L-"

"Stop it," he snaps, knuckles whitening in the dark.  
"What?"  
"You don't need to- You don't need to pretend to be the pretty little princess. We both know what you are."

She recoils, eyes snapping to slits. "And what is that?"  
"A pawn. An actor. I should know. I'm a pawn too, in their games."

"How _dare_ y-"  
"Oh shove it, princess," Robb drawls. "You've been asking after Bran, haven't you? Such concern, such _enormous_ concern," he mocks, "for a boy you met not one night ago?"

"He's only nine! A baby! Anyone would be worr-"

"Yes," Robb interrupts, his gaze damning and cruel. "Anyone would. But not _you_."

A change comes over her, so subtle that Robb thinks he might've missed it if he hadn't been looking right at her. Her eyes shutter, her mouth becomes still. The tension from her body evaporates, and suddenly, there's another girl in front of him - colder, quieter. 

"I _am_ sorry," she says. "For Bran. And for Sansa.” The words ring with a simple sincerity. Robb thinks he rather likes this girl more.  
"Sorry for Sansa?" he asks. "Why?"  
"The _Hound_ -!" She breaks off, looking away. "He is not a good man. He will kill her, and he'll enjoy doing it."

Robb chuckles. "You don't know Sansa," he says, with a sharp little grin. "Oh I would worry more about you, your highness. Who sent you to Sansa, today afternoon in the godswood? The queen?"

"No," she says, her voice remote and uninflected. "Uncle Jaime did."  
"So it was _him_ ," Robb hisses, satisfied. "Thank you, princess. You've been very helpful." He turns around, to the path that leads out of the godswood. 

"Uncle Jaime?" she calls out. "What about him?"

Robb looks over his shoulder. "He pushed Bran. He tried to kill my brother."  
There is a rustle from the trees ahead of him, a clink of metal on metal. Robb turns to see the Kingslayer step out from the shadows, his sword drawn and gleaming maliciously in the moonlight, his eyes narrowed. "Yes," he says quietly, the wind carrying his words. "I did."

* * *

 

 

  
A ring had been cleared in the Great Hall, the tables pushed to the sides, the dais arranged for the royal family's... viewing pleasure. But only the King had come, the King and the Imp. 

Ned's fingers tightened painfully around the armrests, jaw so clenched he could hear the bone grind. His daughter, she was his daughter, and they had all come to see her die. 

He had raised Sansa, in his home, under the roof of his keep. Kissed her bruises, and chased away her nightmares, and reminded her to be brave and good and kind. And every day, he had watched her grow, better and lovelier, her features so painfully familiar, it was as if Lyanna had finally come home to Winterfell. 

He had failed Lyanna once.  
And now, he was going to fail her again. 

The doors were thrown open, the crowd blocking his view. In the ring, the Hound went still, grinning lewdly in anticipation, and Ned was desperately glad he had forbidden the children to be here, that he had commanded them all to be with Bran instead. 

They did _not_ need to watch this.  
They did not need to watch their sister _slaughtered_. 

And then Ned felt the very air in the Hall shift. A change came over the crowd, a ripple of silence moving over them like an ocean wave, outwards from the open doors. He heard the sound before he saw her, a screech like nails across a chalkboard, amplified a thousand times, echoing against the vaulted ceilings of the Great Hall and making him flinch back in pain. 

Sansa Snow walked to the ring.

She wore her hair braided, a stream of crimson down the length of her spine. She wore leather and chain mail, and gauntlets and bracers. And she carried swords in each hand, long, wickedly curved, castle-forged steel, their hilts plain, their edges deadly, that dragged along the stone floor as she walked, streams of bright, golden sparks flying in their wake. 

She stepped into the ring, flashing her swords in a perfectly circular arc with an expert flick of her wrists, and turned to her opponent. Sansa smiled, ice cold, the light never reaching her eyes. 

"Any last words, Ser Hound?" 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you like this chapter? If you did, remember to hit kudos! <3


	7. Part I: Now, I am become Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A child kills, a beast is felled, and a boy awakens.

####  _"He was no true dragon. Fire cannot kill a dragon."_  
_\- Daenerys Targaryen, to Jorah Mormont_

* * *

 

 

_She was too late._

She was already too late. 

The fear was high in her mind, accusation ringing in every syllable. 

The cold, Nothern air lashed her face, as she bent low over her horse, her scarlet cloak streaming behind her like a bloody pennant. She galloped through the twilight, towards the North, always North, the sun casting the sky in fire and gold. 

But she thought of none of that, her red eyes squinted against the bite of the wind, her pale fingers clenched so tightly around the reins they had long gone numb, her body jarring painfully each time the horse's hooves impacted the Kingsroad. 

She had seen the face of Azor Ahai in the flames, wreathed in fire and surrounded by the screams of the nearly dead. She had heard their cries, begging for mercy, smelt the stench of their cruel death. And she could prevent it _all_ , if only she could get there _in **time**._

_Lord_ , she prayed desperately, her gut still churning with the horror she had felt resonate from the child Promised to be. _Give me strength to face this evil, for the night is dark, and full of terrors._

Melisandre spurred her horse faster. Across the horizon, a red star blazed through the skies.

* * *

 

 

"Arya!" Jon yelled, his voice echoing through the woods. He and Ghost had tracked her for a while, but the new snow had obscured her footfalls, and likely, her scent too. He had no idea how deep she had wandered. No idea if she was cold, or hungry, or _scared_ -

"Arya!" he roared, and his foot caught on a bramble hidden under the snow. Jon stumbled, barely catching himself on a low-hanging branch when he saw it. 

Blood in the snow. 

A trail that led steadily north. Jon cursed softly, drawing his sword, and he broke into a run. 

* * *

 

 

When Arya turned nine, Lord and Lady Stark gifted her a bay, twelve hands high and bred for long, hard riding. Jon gave her a quiver of eagle-feathered arrows. Miss Poole gave her a bolt of silvery-blue silk from Highgarden. This last gift, was secretly - and promptly - stashed away in mother's wardrobe.

Sansa gave her an ugly, blunt-edged dagger. 

"This is not your gift," she had said to Arya, placing it hilt-first in her hand. "This is for practice. You _must_ keep it hidden. You must never let _anyone_ \- least of all Lord and Lady Stark, or even Jon - know."

"Just like they don't know about your practicing with Theon?"

"Exactly. And one more thing, Arya. The day you can touch the blade to my throat, is the day you will receive your true gift."

Arya's hand had tightened on the grip, her arm darting upwards in a whip-like strike. Sansa had slapped the blade out of her palm, never batting an eye. She grinned at Arya, who glared back. 

"Good," Sansa said, violet eyes shining with mirth. "Keep trying."

* * *

 

 

"What did Bran tell you?"

Robb goes still, watching the Valyrian steel ripple as it catches moonlight. Like father's Ice, but... less, as if it reflects the honor of its user. It's an odd thought to have, but by the gods, this has been an odd day. 

"You must think me a Lannister, Kingslayer," Robb mocks, "that I would betray a trust so easily."

"Not a Lannister," Jaime snarls, steadily walking forward. "Only an idiot. Where did you send the ravens?"

Robb frowns. "The ravens?"

"Don't act coy with me. Three ravens were sent from Winterfell. To whom were they sent?"

"I- I have no idea what you're talking about."

"I said," Jaime says, voice dangerously low, "don't **_lie_** to me."

"I'm _not!_ " Robb cries, watching the sword point of the Oathbreaker advance closer and closer, sounding young and afraid for the first time. "Why'd you _push_ him? _**Why?!**_ He's only a baby!"

Jaime stops. Watches his quarry. 

"You don't know," he says, wonderingly. "You truly- seven hells, boy.... Did he even wake up?! Did Bran  _ **ever**_ _wake up?"_

Robb says nothing, mouth setting closed belligerently. 

"By the gods," Jaime says, softly, sword dropping down to hang by his side, realization dawning, horror chasing across his handsome features. "You've been _bluffing_. You've _all_ \- He hasn't said _**anything?!"**_

Robb glares, fists clenched at his side. 

"Mother forgive us," Jaime mutters. "I need to stop them- They're going to bur-" He turns around, briefly, towards Winterfell's Great Keep, just as Myrcella screams, " _Uncle! Look out!_ " and Robb calls, gleefully, "Sic 'em, boy!"

Grey Wind erupts, snarling, from the darkness. 

* * *

 

 

The Hound's sword flashes briefly overhead, before coming down brutally. 

Sansa crosses her swords above her, absorbing the jarring impact, allowing it to let her slide down to her knees and slash with one sword at his legs, where no chain mail or braces protect the flesh. The curve of her sword curls around the muscle and the boiled leather cleaves open, as does the skin underneath. She's drawn first blood. 

She grins, but the Hound's expression never even flickers, when he feints left with his sword, letting her rise and sidestep its deadly arc, and bringing a steel-knuckled fist crashing towards the right side of her face. Sansa ducks, but the blow grazes her ear, throwing her sideways as black spots dance across her vision. 

The crowd roars with approval. 

Sansa spits out blood, picking herself up slowly, using the swords as crutches, hands tightening on the hilts, a bloody smile on her face. 

"Very good, Dog," she murmurs, watching blood trickle down his calf, watching him change his stance and very, _very_ briefly, stumble. "Now, shall we begin?"

* * *

 

 

She's dying. 

Jon swears as he crashes to his knees, the impact banked by fresh snow, turning scarlet where Sansa's direwolf's blood seeps into the ground, bubbling from a gash that has torn her open, rib to belly. There is no maester in the world that can save her now. She whimpers when Jon buries his hand in her fur, feeling her turn colder, heartbeat roaring in his ears, as Ghost howls into the empty night, mournful and eerie.

Jon barely notices the corpses around them when he pulls out his dagger, says a prayer to his gods, to the Old gods who watch over this wood. "Good girl," he croons, rubbing her behind her ears, as she moans, her paws spasming in pain, her spine convulsing. “That’s a good girl.” He breathes in, breathes out and buries the dagger in her heart. She dies quietly.

In the highest room of the Great Keep, Bran Stark opens his eyes.

* * *

 

 

The duel rages on. 

The minutes blur together, as Sansa and the Hound thrust and parry and block, sparks flying where their swords clash and drag, him wielding his broadsword double-handed, her snapping and whirling with two points of offense for each point of his defense. His blows fall hard and sure, even though she absorbs each of them, rattling her very bones.

From hip to thigh, her body burns in unflagged agony. The side of her face smarts, purple and bloody, and her ears are filled with a single, high-pitched shrill. 

Clegane has been bleeding steadily, since the first cut, footwork growing sloppier, feet skidding on his own blood when he doesn't watch the stones below them. 

She _has_ him, she has an opening- _**now!**_

He swings, sword curving her way as if from a great distance, and she dances close, slashing open his forehead. He falters, as the wound opens and blood gushes down, obscuring his vision. Head wounds are always the worst bleeders, even when they aren't serious at all. 

Sansa drops, her gambit in play, her whole weight balanced on her heels, her torso parallel to the ground, as the sword whirls above her, a second slash to his inner thigh, right above the artery, her long braid snapping through the air like a whip-

Clegane grabs the end of her plait, wrenching her upwards, even as one sword buries itself in his thigh, up, up, _up_ , until she's dangling an inch above the floor, and his arm draws back, elbow surging forward to bury his sword in her heart; even as her knees rise up to lever off his breastplate, one free hand flashing up to grab his wrist for a fulcrum-

And then they hear the screams over the din of the frenzied crowd. 

" _Fire!_ " the smallfolk cry outside the Great Hall, as a bell begins to toll in the sept, jarring and ominous. " _ **Fire!**_ "

* * *

 

 

Jon and Ghost are surrounded by a ring of dead men, each of them in scarlet cloaks.  _Lannister colours_. Most of their throats have been slashed open, their bodies as pale as weirwoods, a single cut severing the windpipe, so deep it nearly grazes their spines.

No claw did _this_.  
No _direwolf_ did this.  
A blade though... Deadly sharp and expertly wielded.

He hears a groan from behind him and he spins on a heel, hand flying to the hilt of his own sword. One of the soldiers is yet alive.

Jon walks to him, crouching low beside the dying man. "Who did this?" he demands, voice cracked and hoarse. "Who attacked you?"

The man spits in his face, and Jon wipes it away slowly. A great gash has torn this soldier's chest open, intestines leaking out like slimy, grey-pink serpents. This, a direwolf did. The snow around him is yellow with his piss.

Jon sinks his gloved fingers into the gash, squeezing and carving through the man's insides as he arches upwards, screaming. When he's quietened, Jon asks again. "Who attacked you?"

"The one we was lookin' for. The little wolf-bitch, an' 'er dogs," he snarls, and then coughs blood, lurching and heaving as his body contracts in agony. He spits the name like a curse when he says, " _Arya Stark_."

* * *

 

 

The direwolf skids against the flat of Jaime's blade, landing on its front paws, eyes flashing as a deep, earth-shaking rumble gathers in its throat. It reaches higher Jaime's waist, a hulking, monstrous beast right out of some nightmare, slavering and wild and obeying the commands of a _**child**_. 

Jaime lurches right, before swinging left, catching the direwolf on a foreleg. It howls, as its fur stains scarlet, falling back in an unsteady scramble. They circle each other again, Jaime with his sword raised, blood trickling down its edge. The direwolf is stumbling now, its movements unsure, and Jaime draws back, flashes it a bright, fierce grin, filled with promise and murder, and then-

And then Myrcella screams, "Stop! _**Stop!**_ " 

The boy, the Stark _boy_ , has a sword to her _throat_. To his daughter's  _throat-_

"You kill Grey," Robb Stark calls out, his face red, drawn back in a terrible snarl, one arm wrapped like a manacle around Myrcella's waist, holding her flush to his body, "and the girl dies."

* * *

 

 

But their momentums are set, Sansa's and Sandor Clegane’s; nothing can stop them, not even the screaming. She swings towards him in a flat, rushing arc, her curved sword fitting like a glove around the back of his exposed neck, and his elbow plows forward, broadsword in hand like a jouster's lance-

Straight through her chest, the steel ramming past leather and skin and bone, and she drops, eyes going wide with surprise even as her sword cuts through the Hound's spine-

Sansa Snow topples to the ground, wide-eyed, spurting bright, crimson blood from her mouth, staked in the heart, as Ned Stark roars in denial. 

The Hound’s decapitated head falls next to her, a smile still etched on his hideous face.

* * *

 

 

Arya glances back, the blood of dead men drying on her cheeks, her stolen Lannister mount galloping north like the wind itself made flesh, and she watches black plumes of smoke rise against a velvet sky, the orange-gold of a great fire flickering against the darkness. 

_Go_ , Sansa's voice whispers to her. _Go, little one, and do not return. I will come for you._

But Sansa will never come for her, will she? _No one will._ The Hound is going to _**kill**_ her, the Lannister men couldn't stop bragging, and Sansa's going to die, and it's all _her_ fault, all her _**fault**_ - Arya squeezes her eyes shut, and does not look back again. 

Behind her, Winterfell burns. 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you like this chapter? If you did, remember to hit kudos!


	8. Part II: The Destroyer of Worlds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A girl reaches her destination, a boy escapes to an unmoored castle and a hero is reborn.

####  _“I grew up around soldiers. I learned how to die a long time ago.”_  
_\- Eddard Stark, to Varys_

* * *

Jaime Lannister lowers his sword. 

Grey Wind growls, blood flowing freely from his wound, but his gaze never wavers. 

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Jaime asks Robb quietly. 

Myrcella sobs soundlessly, eyes screwed closed, hands curled into fists on either side, her skin pale, pale as the snow of the godswood. The dagger glints silver against the pink-white of her throat.

"You've not left me with a lot of choice, Lannister," Robb retorts. "Stand down, and let me return back to the Keep. You have my word, that I won't harm the girl; not unless you make me."

"I'm afraid I can't take that risk," the knight replies softly. "A man's word is such a fragile thing. And you are not even a man yet." He looks up then, past the direwolf snarling at his feet, past his golden daughter and her dark captor, into the godswood's shadowed canopy. "Now!" he calls out, and a sudden, fiery pain bursts through Robb's shoulder. His sword arm collapses, as he stumbles to his knees, the princess pulling away and running to her uncle with a desperate cry of relief. 

The world spins, darkness leaching through his vision, as his hands scrabble in the snow for purchase. He feels the warmth of his own blood pool under his leather jerkin, feels it trickle in hot dark trails down his back, down his arm, splattering red in the white snow. 

"Grey..." he cries softly, but his direwolf doesn't come. The last thing he sees is the shafts of red-tipped arrows burying themselves in Grey Wind's heart. And then, almost mercifully, the world goes dark, and Robb Stark sees nothing more. 

* * *

"Lady Stark!" Theon gasps, slamming open the door to Bran's room. "Oh thank the gods," he breathes when he sees her look up at him, startled and pale, his hands falling to his knees, in a half-crouch as he tries to catch his breath. 

“He’s woken,” Lady Stark says, smiling for the first time in what feels like years.

“That’ll make it easier.” Barely a second later, he's striding to the bed, scooping a quietly alert Bran into his arms. "Where's Rickon?"

"Theon!" Catelyn cries. "You can't move him! His back isn't-"

"I know," Theon interrupts, shortly, peering out of the window. "Better a broke spine and alive, my lady, than a healed spine and a dead boy."

"What-"

"The Lannisters have managed a coup. The king is dead, or as good as, anyway. The Keep is swarming with Lannister swords. I barely made it here alive, and you need to-" but he breaks off, staring intently into the distance. "Motherfuck," he hisses, holding Bran tight, who whimpers in protest. "They're going to light the village up."

He turns to Lady Stark, who has gone white, eyes wide, mouth drawn in a thin line. Her eyes look bluer, sharper. "You need to tell me now, my lady. Where is Rickon?"

"In his room."

"Good," Theon nods. "Get him, carry him, meet us at the wall behind the sept where the- do you know where the wall crumbles? The part just between the-"

"The sept's hidden gate and the walkway, yes," she replies. "I do."

"Good," he says, but he's already shuffling to the door, Bran tossed over his shoulder under one arm, his sword drawn in the other. "Hurry, my lady. There's horses waiting, with Ser Rodrick and Hodor. They'll take you all to Lady Arryn at the Eyrie."

"And you?" Catelyn calls, and Theon pauses at the top of the stairs, the air hazy and dark. "What about you, Theon?"

Theon smiles, just barely, never looking up at her. "I grew up here, my lady," he says quietly, his voice strong and unwavering. “Winterfell is my home too. I must fight for it."

* * *

Ned stumbles down from the podium, crashing to his knees at Sansa's side. 

"No," he whispers, hands coming down to press at the gaping wound, blood spurting between his fingers. Her eyes flicker to him, and her hand twitches, as if to reach out to him, and Ned is lost in memory, wrenched to a tower on a rocky cliff, holding Lyanna's hand and watching her die again, defeated and utterly helpless. 

" _No_ ," he pleads with her, and Sansa smiles, slow and tremulous, her violet eyes unfocused at some distant point. 

"Go," she whispers. "Protect- Safe... Tell Jon-" Her body convulses, blood gurgling at the back of her throat. Her eyes roll back into her head, and then, she is still.

The crowd has turned into a mob around them, the Hound's head rolling between their feet, as they rush, frenzied and seething, for the exit. But there are only two doors out of the Great Hall. 

"It's locked!" a man screams.

"They're both locked!" cries another. 

Robert rises unsteadily on the dais. "Break down the doors!" he bellows, his voice booming in the confines of the Hall, the air growing acrid with smoke. "In the name of your king, I command you, men! Break down the bloody doors!"

* * *

Melisandre knows the road she must take, even in this strange, foreign land. She knows its bare-branched trees and its icy rivers, the bends of the road she must follow, the secret gate hidden behind the temple of a false god that will remain open for her. She knows to wait in the shadows until a party of five has departed, armed and on horseback, two men, two boys and a lone woman, her hair like the firelight that ravages Winterfell. She creeps in silently, breathing in dark, smoky air, the heat of a devouring flame licking her skin like a lover’s caress. 

Here, in this burning city, she is safe. Her Lord watches over her, and when she makes her way to the Great Hall, the flames themselves part like the sea to allow her safe passage.

* * *

Theon places Bran on the horse, strapping his body to Hodor’s front tightly. It will be painful for the boy, but the ride to Eyrie must be long and hard, punishing even. If the Lannister men discover the Lady of Winterfell, and two of its heirs missing, there will be little doubt of where she will go.

“Is that alright?” Theon asks, and Bran nods, though his fingers have gone white around the straps. Brave kid, Theon thinks fondly, and wonders if they will ever see each other again.

But there is no time. No time for goodbyes.

“Be safe,” Theon says, racking his brain for things Jon might have said. He should be here, Theon thinks angrily. He should be here. “Be good for your mother. Br brave, Bran."

The boy nods, and Theon smiles briefly, a flash of a grin that comes from a time before the bloody Lannisters set his whole world afire. “Good lad,” Theon says, and turns to leave.

“Theon!” Bran calls, and he looks back.

“I know who pushed me,” he says, and Theon's heart stops, his hand flying for the pommel of his sword. Somebody will die, tonight. Somebody will die, and by the gods, Theon swears viciously, they’ll die by his sword.

"A Lannister," Theon hisses. 

"The Queen's brother, aye. You need to get to Jon. You need to tell him - if King Robert is really dead like you say, then Joffrey isn't his heir."

* * *

There are only two doors out of the Great Hall. 

The first is a great oaken affair, lined in cold-forged steel, and mounted on enormous hinges. It commands respect, and awe, and it cannot be broken.

But the second door is located slightly off from from the high table, a smaller door, mounted in a wooden frame, with humble fittings, that leads to a stony corridor, and thereon to the Great Keep. It is this door they choose to break. The iron bolts holding the door closed have turned a deep, molten orange with heat, the wood sparking and smoldering. On the other side, a fire roars.

But this hardly matters to the crowd, whose desperation to get out has turned them wild. "Heave!" bellows the King, and the men, who have fashioned a battering ram from one of the trestle tables, rush forward, swinging the table into the door. The frame splinters.

"Stop!" cries a woman, her voice nearly swallowed by the sound of their screams. "The fire will come here, and we'll all burn, stop, stop-"

"And, heave!" the King bellows once more, and they rush forth-

the door cracks down the middle-

the fire rushes in, like a monster loosed from its shackles, consuming fresh, sweet air, and devouring the wood, the cloth, the flesh of screaming men-

Robert Baratheon, and the man would have been his Hand, die in a blaze of inglorious agony.

* * *

The journey takes her ten days. 

After the first three days of continuous, painful riding, Arya's horse collapses, crashing and skidding into a bank of snow, its eyes rolling back into its head, its breath heaving in bursts of white mist, long, bleeding scrapes down its sides where Arya has spurred the horse with the point of her dagger. 

Arya slides off, whimpering in pain, her bottom and thighs purpled and oozing with bloody riding sores. She scrounges in the saddlebags and discovers oat and feed, lumps of sugar, paper and quills, flint and stitching needles, salted strips of meat and a canteen of fine, golden liquor, and a single, wrinkly apple. The horse must've belonged to a ranger, or perhaps a scout. Someone who knew how to wield a sword, but also ranged on long solitary journeys, clearing the roads for the royal caravan's approach. 

Her hands are shaking when pulls out the meat, hungrily chewing the leathery strips, washing it down with handfuls of fresh snow. When she is done, she feeds the wild-eyed horse lumps of sugar, the solitary apple, and pours the alcohol over its seeping wounds. The horse bucks in pain, whinnying and twitching, but it is too exhausted to fight her. 

Nymeria returns, several hours later, with her muzzle bloody. Fed, and tired, and hurting, Arya curls into the direwolf's warmth, and sleeps for a while. 

She has so very many miles to go. 

* * *

Melisandre walks into a ruined hall through a small, broken door, the charred remains of men still smoldering at her feet. The wooden beams that had held the ceiling have crashed to the ground, reduced to embers that wink bright gold before they die away, and air is choked with soot. 

But she is untouched. 

Azor Ahai lies under the carcass of a man, whose hands are clasped over her wounds. He must have loved her very well, whoever he was; a lesser man would have left her side when he began to burn, and for a fleeting, aching moment, Melisandre burns with jealousy. 

The priestess breathes deeply, and comes down to kneel before the unburnt girl. Her violet eyes are open and unseeing, her skin, where it is exposed under blackened, flaking leather and molten links of chain mail, is untouched by flame. Her chest is a ravage of blood and shattered bone, and then Melisandre knows - her greatest task is ahead of her yet. 

* * *

Lady Stark’s party is ambushed four days later, on the bend after they pass Moat Cailin. Their attackers bear the sigil of House Swyft, bannermen to House Lannister, and they kill Ser Rodrick, and one of the few sellswords they had acquired at a tavern on the Riverlands’ border. 

“Go,” Catelyn whispers to Hodor, Bran strapped to his chest, the sounds of men locked in battle echoing through the rocky outcropping. Bran's face has grown paler each day, the pain of travelling while hurt making him unable to eat and drink or even rest. “Go to Greywater Watch. Do you know where that is, Hodor?” Hodor nods rapidly, pointing roughly northwest, where night has begun to creep across the horizon, long midnight-dark fingers stealing across the heavens. A bloody star arches towards the north high overhead, at the zenith of its journey. 

“Howland Reed is loyal to our House, and even the Lannisters won’t be able to find you there.” There is no time, no time for goodbyes, so Catelyn presses a hard kiss to Bran’s forehead, and pats Hodor’s enormous shoulder. “Go,” she urges, turning to pull Rickon onto her horse. “Go!"

* * *

Sansa Snow strides out of the room, soot-smudged and stunning, Lord Stark's sword of Valyrian steel liberated from his corpse and in her hand. 

 _It is done,_ Melisandre thinks, relief surging through her veins. _She is Ice. It is nearly done._

And then there is a _clang!_ of metal on stone and she whirls around, red skirts flying up to wrap around her calves as a deformed, blackened thing crawls out of the rubble. Its limbs are stumpy and foreshortened, its skin dark with soot and dust, its one eye light and the other, dark. When it smiles, it is almost shockingly white. 

"What are you?" Melisandre gasps. She was always fated to die in Westeros. _Is this how it ends?_ Is this how she ends? _There's so much left to do, though. So much to do, and so little of her life left._

"One might ask the same of you," the thing remarks, its voice hoarse and crackling. "It isn't often you meet someone able to raise the dead."

"It isn't often you meet someone able to rise from the dead," she replies. "As for who I am... I am Melisandre," she declaims, quietly, "high priestess of R'hollor, of the Order of the Red Priests of Volantis."

"A pleasure, madam," the thing drawls, grasping the walls to lever itself to its full height, knees knocking together with the effort. It barely reaches her waist. "You and I are both a far way from home. My name is Tyrion, of House Lannister." He sighs, sounding masterfully bored. “You wouldn’t have any wine on you, by chance? It got rather… warm here, for a while. I'm parched."

 _A man,_ she realizes. He is a man. A strange, cynical, oddly brave _man._ And Melisandre has not smiled like this in years. 

* * *

The horse dies on the ninth day. In another time, in another place, Arya might have been sad for the beast. But now it simply means she'll have to walk the rest of the way. 

And she doesn't know if she can. 

Nymeria hunts for them both, the last two days. She brings rabbits, and voles, and ferrets, with soft furs and beady, black eyes that never look away. Arya skins them, hacking away the pelts with her dagger in short, inexpert slashes, mounting the little creatures on amateur spits, and eating them a little bloody and burnt every time. 

She vomits out all but two meals, and when she finally reaches the Mole's Town, she is nothing like the girl who left Winterfell. Her cheeks have become gaunt and starved, her eyes enormous in her small face, her lips bloody and chapped, her gait bow-legged from being in saddle for so long. 

She enters the first tavern she sees, and tugs an aging barmaid's skirts. 

"Whaddaya want, boy?" the fat, sweaty woman asks, reeking of onions and ale, and Arya is suddenly glad that she had worn Bran's old riding breeches before she had left, instead of a gown, that her hair hadn't been long enough to be mistaken for a girl's. Thank the god she's not like Sansa, in this one way. Thank the old gods and new she isn't pretty. 

"I need to speak with a man from the Night's Watch," Arya rasps, her voice hoarse from disuse. 

"Do I look like a bloody crow to you?" the woman demands. "And get your damned mutt out of my bar! I won't have any dogs pissin' in the corner! I got enough men who think to do that already, the filthy bastards."

"I need to get a message to Castle Black," Arya insists. "I need to speak to Benjen Stark. It's _important_."

"You can't speak to Benjen Stark, lad," a voice rumbles from behind her, and Arya spins around on a heel, hand flashing to the hilt of her dagger. The barmaid scuttles away, muttering about crows and dogs and all manner of animals. The man is old, but powerfully built, in black armor with no sigil, and a sword belt around his waist. 

"Who are you?" Arya demands. "How do you know him?"

"I am Jeor Mormont. Lord Commander of the Watch. And the man you're looking for has been missing beyond the Wall for eight days now." He peers at her, frowning. "Who are you?" he asks, wonderingly. 

"I am Arya Stark of Winterfell," she says. "And I'm wanted by the Queen."

"Arya!" he repeats, bending to grasp her by the chin. "Ned's girl. By the gods, child... What happened to you?"

"I _told_ you,” she snaps, "I'm wanted by the Queen. Or I will be, at least. When they find out."

"Yes," Lord Mormont says, "you did. What charge is - that is, _will be_ laid against you?"

"Murder. Eight of her men came to take me. I killed them all."

* * *

Jon follows the sounds of the screams.

They come at him, in twos and threes, in scarlet cloaks and bloodied swords. His people’s blood. Winterfell’s blood. And they all die.

They’re prettily dressed, and finely armed, each one of these royal soldiers, and they’re all poorly-trained. Soft, southron boys, who have played at being knights, while Jon has trained for this his whole life, the smell of woodfire and smoke coating the back of his throat with ash, the metallic, coppery tang of blood filling his nose, the bells that toll endlessly above the sept, above the sounds of dying men and screaming women and abandoned, terrified _children-_

And then he sees the charred, smoking ruin of the Great Hall- where the duel was, Jon realizes with rush of horror. Where the King was. Where _Father-_ Where _Sansa-_ The door is ringed by a half-circle of Lannister swordsmen, facing off a solitary attacker. Theon bloody Greyjoy, the brave, thrice-damned fool.

Jon cuts through a Lannister spearman almost carelessly, before rushing to Theon’s side, slicing a would-be attacker through the neck, the spine splintering like so much sand against the edge of his blade. 

“Took your time, Stark,” Theon mocks breathlessly, ducking an enemy’s sword, before darting in to open his jugular.

“I had a few disagreements on the way,” Jon mutters, grunting with effort to dodge when a soldier attempts a flashy undercut, and punching the idiot out. He goes down like a stone.

“How’d that go?” Theon slips his blade between a man’s ribs.

“Well,” Jon defers, “they’re dea- Look out!” he shouts, when a soldier bursts from the shadows to Theon, sword upraised, swinging in a deadly arc at Theon’s neck-

And with no one to hold them closed, the doors to the Hall burst open, a blade of Valyrian steel gleams in the moonlight,-

The soldier is speared through his stomach, blood bubbling out of his mouth as he looks down, clutching his stomach, a look of bewildered surprise on his face, as he dies-

Sansa Snow walks out, exultant and lovely and _alive, she’s alive, she’s-_

Their swords clatter to their sides, and Jon doesn’t know to breathe until she’s in his arms, kissing her fully, wholly, desperately, like a man who knows he has everything he’s ever needed in his arms. She tastes like blood and lightning, her body soft and warm and yielding, her fingers fisted like manacles around the back of his neck. She keens into his mouth, and _gods_ , Jon thinks deliriously, tugging a long, pale leg to wrap around his hips, the memory of her cunt clenching around his cock like a brand in his mind, hands like iron bands around her waist, roving down her sides, her breasts crushed to his chest, _anything for her. Everything for her._

* * *

 

“What is the meaning of this? He’s supposed to be _dead!_ "

Jaime sighs. “If we kill them all, the North rises in revolt. They will find out what happened. We killed too many to hide it. We killed the ki-“ Cersei slaps a hand over his mouth, their faces dim and shadowy in the tiny wheelhouse, lit by moonlight and flickering lamps.

“ _Never_. Speak. Of it. Do you understand? _Never_."

Jaime peels her hand away, vibrating with anger. “That boy,” he snarls, “is the last Stark. If our plan succeeded, if no one got away, then that boy is Lord Stark. The Warden of the North. As long as we hold him, we hold the Kingdom together."

“Oh."

“Yes,” Jaime sneers. “ _Oh_. Don’t play at war when you’ve never raised a sword, sweet sister. You don’t know the first thing about war."

* * *

“We have a new recruit,” Mormont announces to the gathered men, the Master Builder and Aemon and Thorne, long after suppertime. “Some lord’s bastard, but he won’t say which."

“Likely he’s lyin’ then,” Thorne mutters darkly, sipping his ale in the empty dining hall. “Puttin’ on airs to show off for the boys."

“I believe him,” Mormont announces, and Alliser Thorne barely suppresses his snort. “He knows his way around a sword, has his letters, and he speaks well. The lord must’ve let him share lessons with his boys."

“What’s this blessed bastard’s name, then?"

“My name’s Arry, sir,” a boy says, stepping out the shadows, dark hair obscuring most of his face, enormous grey eyes peering up at Thorne, his voice high and sweet like someone very young. “Arry Snow.” 

“Well, well, _Lord Snow_ ,” Thorne jeers. “Welcome to the illustrious order of the Night’s Watch.” 

* * *

  _ **End of Book I**_

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The timeline of the story starts to complicate here - I've had some (very minor, very polite) pushback on whether I've thought trhough travel times and the geography or Westeros, instead of being all handwavey about it, like d&d were circa s07. I swear I have, a bit; this is where the characters are, right now. If you'd like to check it out, [this is the map](http://gameofthrones.net/images/Westeros_Maps/a-game-of-thrones-world-map-westeros-essos.jpg) I've been using for reference.
> 
> Arya takes over a week to get to Castle Black because she's a single, largely unprovisioned rider, and she's avoiding the Kingsroad entirely. If she hadn't, she would've taken at least three days less.
> 
> Catelyn - or rather, Theon - chooses to go to the Vale, instead of one of the closer castles (Cerwyn, Moat Cailin, Torrhen's Square) for the same reason Robb Stark didn't leave Jaime Lannister in any of his bannermen's keeps during the Wot5K; and besides, the Eyrie is impregnable.
> 
> Robb and Jaime's argument occurs _before_ the fire - by the time the fighting breaks out, the Lannisters and their new captive have already left. In AGOT, they took a month to reach Winterfell from King's Landing, and that was while travelling in a wheelhouse pulled by forty draft horses, and stopping at every Keep along the way. It is my assumption that if they travelled very, very light, and changed horses at every inn, without stopping, they would make it to the capital in about the same time that Arya reached Castle Black.
> 
> That covers most of the issues here, more to come for each time where the timeline starts to get - apparently -  
>  handwavey.


	9. hunger in my blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A girl becomes the captor, a boy makes a friend, and a woman leaves her home.

#  _Book II: Break the Crown_

* * *

####  _"What good is power, if you cannot protect the ones you love?"  
\- Cersei Baratheon, to Oberyn Martell_

* * *

#### Winterfell

“We need to send ravens across Westeros. We need them all to know- We need the _Lannisters_ to know that we know the truth, that they cannot _hide.”_ Sansa paces up and down the clearing at the steps of the Broken Tower, Ice at her hip, cloak whipping around her body as she pivots, retracing her steps.

“I’ll call Father’s bannermen,” Jon agrees, his features stony, nostrils flared and mouth severe. “They should know the truth from me, not from a raven.” Theon sits next to him, on the steps, propped up against the frame of where the Tower’s door had once been, a bloody sword laid over his knees. The air tastes bitter at the back of their mouths, ash and soot lining their lungs with each tired inhale. 

“ _Your_ bannermen, now,” Theon interjects. “Not your father’s, Lord Stark.” Sansa stops, turning to meet Jon’s shocked, angry gaze. _Father’s dead,_ Sansa thinks to herself, the words coming as if from very far away, not quite here, not quite real.

Jon looks… _lost_ , and Sansa sees a hundred images of him, a boy who told her she’s was good and kind and decent before she’d believed it herself, a boy who’d held her when she’d been so close to death, a boy who had returned to her, always to her, overlapping the man he has grown into.

She walks to him, covering the short distance, aware of Theon’s eyes on them and not truly caring. She cupped the side of his face and met his eyes. “Lord Stark,” she repeated, ringing with faith and love and conviction, pressing their foreheads together, their breaths mingling. “Call your bannermen.”

And then a soldier, in grey and white, the Stark sigil emblazoned on his shield bursts into the clearing. “My lord,” he gasps, panting. “Grey- Grey Wind, your brother’s direwolf-“ He sucks in a breath, and continues, “We’ve found him in the godswood, shot full of Lannister arrows."

Theon rises to his feet, sword in hand, glancing at Sansa, whose fingers are wrapped around Ice’s hilt. and Jon strides to his soldier. “And Robb?” he demands. “Where’s Robb?"

“We don’t know, my lord,” the man says, voice trembling. The side of his leather jerkin is sliced open, blood dripping freely down the side, staining the snow here he stands. This man fought the Lannisters. “We haven’t found him, not yet."

“They took him.” All the men turn to Sansa, her expression cold and forbidding, her eyes burning, mouth contorted into a snarl. “The Lannisters took our _brother_."

* * *

 

#### King's Landing

It is his third day.

The morning dawns warm in King’s Landing, sunlight slanting in long, golden bars through the narrow window along the ceiling of Robb Stark's dungeon. The sounds of the Red Keep filter in - the rhythmic thump of soldiers marching through the corridors, the back-and-forth of chambermaids and scullery girls and cooks and washerwomen, all the human apparatus involved in maintaining the castle, and the bells…

Always the bells, clanging on and on, deep and sonorous, their voices filling Robb with an unnameable dread.

There is a stench here, in the capital, like blood and piss and something foul, something gone rotten in the belly of a beast… _Dead rats in the walls,_ Robb thinks feverishly. Old Nan’s stories echo in his mind, spinning round and round, chasing their own tails and drawing strange, black nightmares. _Dead rats, eaten by their father, and a curse from the gods… A terrible curse..._

It is the third day, and Robb knows he will die here, away from his home, away from his family, away, away-

 _Water_ , he prays, wondering if the Old gods can hear him so far from home. _I need water._

He slips back into a fitful doze, warmth and light creeping over his body, stealing moisture from cracked, bloody lips, the manacles around his wrists and ankles chafing his skin, rubbing him raw. When sleep comes for him, he dreams of Grey Wind’s corpse, blood pooling crimson in the freshly-fallen snow, starlight reflecting in his direwolf’s dark, unseeing eyes.

If he could have tears, Robb would have cried his heart out. But his body is dry, drier than the bones in Winterfell's crypts. And there's no one to chase his fears away.

* * *

 

#### At the Wall

"You shouldn't have done that."

Arya looks up to see the fat boy from the yard fidgeting at the entrance to the armory, the one they've been calling Ser Piggy right to his face. She’s been at the Wall, at Castle Black for barely three days now, and she **_hates_** it. She hates the smell of the place, like sweat and rot and damp, the way the cold gets under her clothes and she’s never _ever_ warm. She hates the men, with their leering, ugly faces and their rough, strange accents. She hates everything about this place - Arya Stark has never so badly wanted to be _home._

"Shouldn't have done what?" she demands, drawing a whetstone in a long, smooth line, like Theon had taught her, down her new sword. Well, new is subjective. The sword itself is old, older than dirt, and poorly maintained at that, but it's new to her, and the balance isn't terrible. “Shouldn’t have saved your bloody hide? Do you _like_ being hit, you great stupid idiot?"

"You shouldn't have humiliated the other recruits. They're all plotting your murder in the stables."

Arya snorts. "Let them try," she mutters. "I'd _love_ the practice."

"You shouldn't," he insists, plaintive and bumbling. “Ser Alliser’s going to make your life miserable now, and besides. You're being a bully."

Arya narrows her eyes, glaring at him. “Ser Alliser can go fuck himself.” Beside her, Nymeria raises her snout from her paws and bares her yellow fangs at the fat, beady-eyed boy. “And _I'm_ being a bully?" she retorts. "They're twice my size!"

"And they've never learnt to fight!" he says, raising his voice, even though he shuffles back a step. " _You_ know how to fight, and instead of teaching them, all _you_ care about is showing off."

Arya recoils, eyes going wide. "I do not!" she cries, jumping to her feet, her sword clattering to the ground. "I _am_ teaching them!"

"Oh?" he mocks, even though Nymeria is on her haunches now, a steady, warning growl rumbling from deep within her throat. _What a brave idiot._ "Doesn't look like it from where I'm standing. Looks to me like you've got a chip on your shoulder, and you just like watching them fall."

"They _need_ to learn how to fall!" Arya shouts at him. "That's the _first_ lesson, you arse, that's _always_ the first lesson."

Arya remembers a hundred lessons with Sansa and Theon, days when they'd trained with her so long, she'd gone to bed whimpering and bruised and aching all over, certain that she was never ever ever going to go to their yard again. They'd never asked her to come, afterwards, and when she'd asked Sansa to bandage her bruises, she'd always been achingly kind, kissing her on the forehead and calling her, ' _my brave, sweet girl_ ,' making her feel safe. Special.

But Arya had gone back after every terrible bout, and when she had, Theon and Sansa had grinned at her brighter than the sun, and ruffled her hair, handing her weapon and teaching her, first and foremost, how to fall.

But Sansa's gone, now. Winterfell's gone. And Arya can never go back.

"If you don't know how to fall," she snarls, hurt and anger fusing into molten heat in her belly, "you _can't_ learn how to fight! _Everyone_ knows that!"

The boy sighs, and looks away. " _You_ know that. They? They haven't held a sword in their lives. They don't know _any_ of that. Maybe, next time, you might **_tell_** them, before you pummel them to the ground. Even if it is to save my bloody hide.” He scuffs the top of his foot against the stone floor. "Thank you, for that, by the way. I never thanked you." He watches Nymeria for a while. "And could you tell your dog to stand down? I'm not stupid enough to attack either of you two."

Arya gapes at him. "Who _are_ you?"

"Samwell Tarly, of Hornhill," he says, and Arya notices his eyes twinkling kindly, as he flourishes an awkward little bow. "At your service, Lord Snow.”

* * *

 

#### King's Landing

On the fourth day of his solitary imprisonment, Robb Stark receives a visitor.

 _She_ wears black. Mourning colours, but with her golden curls, and amber skin, she is a Lannister, through and through. _Who is dead?_ he wants to ask her. _Who does a girl like you mourn?_

“Hello, Stark."

“Princess,” he rasps, his throat burning with the effort of even those small syllables. There is a white bandage around her neck, a spot of blood blooming off-centre, like a haphazard ruby on a white choker. She watches him stare, and runs her fingers along the edge of the gauzy cloth. 

“You left me a little memento of our last encounter, my lord,” she murmurs. “So inconsiderate of you.” 

Robb says nothing. She was innocent of her uncle’s crimes. He shouldn’t have hurt her. Father won’t be pleased, when he finds out.

She pushes a canteen of water through the bars, the stopper hanging open, sloshing it around as if to entice him. _Water… Sweet gods, they heard him, water!_ Robb forces himself up on his hands and feet, crawling to the grated door, reaching out to her.

But Myrcella Baratheon smiles. She pulls the canteen out of his reach, and pours its contents to the ground outside his cell, never looking away from him, even when he grasps for the water he so desperately needs. Her eyes gleam cruelly, emerald and jade and hard, unforgiving stone, like something mined from the heart of Casterly Rock. 

She turns to leave, and Robb has barely enough strength for one last question. 

“Why?” he begs her. _Why? Why do this? Why come to a dying man, and make his going harder?_

“You _hurt_ me,” she says, her voice breaking just a little, and Robb is struck by the realization that she’s only fourteen too, just like him. "You made me feel _weak_ , and _helpless_ , and more scared than I’ve ever been, my whole life.” She never looks back at him.

"Now you know what it's like. To be at someone’s mercy.” Myrcella moves to leave, and adds, just before she disappears up the stairs out of the dungeons, “You should’ve remembered, Stark. A Lannister _always_ pays her debts."

* * *

 

#### Winterfell

"You're going. To King’s Landing."

Sansa turns to Jon, Ice's scabbard laid flat across her back, her curved swords sheathed at her hips. She has knives tucked in each boot, a slim, ivory blade tucked into her hair. There's something about his eyes now, she can see, something flat and reptilian, something dead.

"Yes," she replies, before turning back to her stallion, tightening the saddle and adjusting the halter. “Theon will go to Pyke, to convince his father. Cassel and Poole will send ravens to their friends across the North, for sightings of a lone girl, possibly with a dog. It’ll be best if the Queen thinks she was successful, that’s Arya’s truly dea-"

"I'm coming with you," he says.

"No," Sansa snaps. "You're not."

“Robb's my brother too, Sansa. I'm not letting you go to-"

"'Letting me'?" she mocks, bitterly. " _'Letting me’_?! You're not- You're not my-"

"I am," Jon snarls, stepping into her space, heat rolling off him in waves. "I am _yours_. And you are _mine._ From this day, till the end of my-"

"Stop!" she sobs furiously, shoving at his chest with closed fists. “Stop making this harder, you- you _bastard!"_

His hands come around her wrists, holding them to his chest, where his heart thunders under her fingertips, walking her back into the stable wall. 

His body is a line of heat against hers, his heart beating in time with hers. "I am yours," he vows inexorably, "and you are mine. From this day," he whispers, nudging her chin up and brushing a kiss against her lips, "until the end of my days."

"Call your bannermen," Sansa whispers, finally, voice trembling and small, hiding her face against the solid curve of muscle where his shoulder meets his neck. "Send Theon to Pyke, and secure the Kraken’s support," she commands, with a shaking, terrified voice, into his warm, pale skin. "Tell your Uncle Edmure what has happened. Tell him to ready the Riverlands. And tell Stannis Baratheon that the Iron Throne is his, by right."

“And when it is done?" he asks, softly, his voice barely a rumble. "When the North is secure? Will you come back to me?"

"Yes," she swears, falling into his arms, fine tremors running down the length of her spine, as the bells in Catelyn Tully's sept toll away mournfully for the loss of Eddard Stark, for the King, for the corpses that litter Winterfell's grounds.

"I'll come back to you." She tugs his mouth against hers, kissing him with every breath, making her vows in the spaces in between. "I will come back, Jon,” she breathes, and he steals the words from her as she vows over and over, “I’ll come back to you, I will, I will."

And for that moment, the world is whole again. 

* * *

 

_(What good is power, if you cannot protect the ones you love?)_

####  _"We can avenge them."  
\- Oberyn Martell, to Cersei Baratheon_

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A clarification on timeline:  
>  **Winterfell:** It is still the same night of the duel, approaching dawn.   
> **King's Landing:** It takes them nine days to reach the capital, and during that time, Robb Stark is provided food and water. His regimen of deprivation starts only when they reach the Keep. If you're wondering why the King's death hasn't been political suicide for the Queen, the answer will come soon enough.  
>  **At the Wall:** The Wall's timeline is, right now, perfectly aligned with that of KL.


	10. this is love (this is hell)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A woman confronts her past, a boy takes the black, and a man goes home.

####  _"There's a war coming, Ned._  
_I don't know when, and I don't know whom we'll be fighting. But it's coming."_

####  _\- Robert Baratheon, to Eddard Stark_  


* * *

##### Pyke, Iron Islands

“Don’t you remember me, dear brother?" 

Theon stares at her for long, uncomprehending moments, in the dim, grey light that filters into Pyke’s Great Hall, at her long, dark hair, her hard, brown eyes, the easy, cocky way she holds herself. “... _Yara?_ ” he asks incredulously, wonder and shock warring in his head.

“Congratulations, Theon. The Northerners didn’t evanesce what little head you had, hmm?"

But Theon barely hears her. He thinks, instead, about the Targaryens who once ruled Westeros, who married brother and sister for generations, who, in the end, went barmier than a dockside whore. He thinks about Jaime Lannister, knightly and golden, fucking his sister the Queen, and about their twisted monster of a child who sits on the Iron Throne. He thinks about a night when his whole world burnt, when the man who had been more of a father to him than Balon Greyjoy was murdered by a treasonous lioness. He thinks about that night, when Jon Stark had kissed Sansa Snow in view of the gods and all the world, the fires of Winterfell gilding them in blood and ash and gold. 

And he thinks about Yara, the offhand way she had greeted him, like a stranger, at the dock, the hungry way she’d shoved his hand against her cunt while they rode her horse to the castle. He thinks about the soft weight of her breast in his hand, the way her nipple had hardened under his calloused thumb, the smell of the skin at the back of her neck, sweat and salt and sea air. 

She stares at him, mocking and jeering and superbly confident, and he looks back at her, at this lovely, bitter woman who is supposed to be _sister,_ his _sister!_  And Theon- Theon bursts out laughing.

Ah, sweet irony. His life is _ridiculous._

* * *

 

 

##### The Eyrie, The Vale of Arryn

They break their fast in a small courtyard in the Eyrie, bursting with grass and pink peonies, where Aunt Lysa has her servants place a small, beautifully made wrought iron table and matching chairs. 

Mother and Lady Arryn sit across from each other, cousin Robin nestled in Aunt Lysa's lap, slurping noisily at his mother's bare breast, sour milk dribbling down his chin. Lysa pets his hair absently, like a little girl with a doll, smiling her strange, unsettling smile as she stares off into the distance. Rickon wrinkles his nose and looks away, meticulously running a brush through Shaggydog's fur, and feeling him rumble contentedly in the warm, Vale sun.

"That was a terrible day, Lysa," Mother is saying, as she sips at her tea. "Your raven, accusing the Lannisters of Lord Arryn's death, and then Bran's fall from the Tower… I told Ned and Jon about it immediately, of course-"

Mother says Father is dead, that he’s gone and he’s never coming back, but that doesn’t make sense. Papa _always_ comes back. He tried telling her this, late last night after supper, but then Mother had hugged him and cried and _cried_ , and Rickon decided then maybe not mentioning Papa would be best.

He wonders when Father will come, and take them home to Winterfell. He doesn’t like it here.

“Jon?” Lysa interrupts, blinking rapidly. “Jon is not- Jon is-” Her nostrils flare slightly, the tired lines of her face becoming sharply pronounced. "Jon?” 

“My son, Lysa,” Mother soothes. “My oldest boy. Not _your_ \- Gods,” she sighs, her shoulder slumping, her voice breaking with pain, "what punishment is this? Both our husbands, dead, and because of the same damned poison."

Lysa starts at that, eyes swerving to settle sharply on Catelyn. “What?” she snaps. “What do you mean?"

Cat stares at her, discomfited. Rickon watches Mother’s fingers turn white, very briefly, around the handle of her teacup. “The Lannisters, Lysa,” she says slowly. “The Lannisters murdered both our husbands. Poisoned yours, and burnt mine alive.” She places her teacup down, and Rickon hears it rattle against the saucer like Mother’s hands might be shaking. “Didn’t they?"

“Yes,” Lysa says, pouting like a child, her fingers petting Robin in short, anxious sweeps. “Yes, of course. Just like my message said.” She smiles at Mother, and Rickon sees how her smile stretches her lips wide, showing dim, yellowing teeth, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

A servant enters the meadow, announcing the Lords and Ladies of the Vale are assembled for court, and they all rise, mother, looking pale and preoccupied, Aunt Lysa, still sour-faced, with a squirming Robin in her arms, and Rickon, Shaggydog bouncing at his heels. 

In spite of the sun, and Shaggydog’s warmth, and the winter cloak he still wears, Rickon shivers.

* * *

 

 

##### Pyke, Iron Islands

The next day, early in the morning, the door to Yara’s bedchamber swings open, and one of the prettiest whores south of the Wall Theon has ever seen steps out, long, dark hair framing delicate, even features and eyes bluer than the Tullys’. 

He smirks. “And who are you?” he drawls, propping one shoulder up against the corridor’s wall and crossing his arms, surveying the girl with frank appreciation. 

“Maia, milord,” the girl chirps, dipping into an obscene little curtsey that pushes her generous tits up together. 

“What a lovely lass you are,” Theon murmurs, gesturing her closer with a crooked finger. She saunters up to him, and he runs a hand up her side, lazily palming her soft, heavy tits, pressing a hard, quick kiss to her lush mouth. She tastes like sea air and salt… _like his sister’s cunt,_ Theon realizes abruptly, and he kisses her harder then, grinning wickedly against her mouth before delving in. 

He releases her slowly, almost unwillingly, cock stirring interestedly in his breeches. “And how is my sister this morning?"

Maia smiles, her gaze ducking away coyly. “Well pleased, milord."

“I don’t doubt it,” Theon remarks wryly. “For your troubles,” he murmurs, tucking a coin in between her breasts, before sending her on her way with a smack on her arse and striding into his sister’s chambers.

“Good morning, sister mine!" 

“Get the fuck out of my room, you wanker."

“Stop, stop, you’ll make me blush."

“I’ll make you _bleed,_ you cunt-"

“Ow! Ouch, stop throwing things, you daft bitch!"

“Out, out-"

“I’m fuckin’ leaving! That hurt!"

“Cry to someone who _cares- Out!"_

* * *

 

##### At the Wall

 

“I want to go North of the Wall,” Arya says to Commander Mormont, a week after she’s arrived at Castle Black, striding into his office and closing the door behind her. “I know you’re sending a party of rangers beyond the Wall to look for Uncle Benj-"

“Careful, boy,” Mormont warns. “You have no uncle here."

“You know what I mean,” Arya whispers sharply. “I’m a better rider and a better fighter than all the boys here. I want to _go_!"

“And I want to ride a dragon."

Arya blinks. “What?"

“Dragons, my boy,” Mormont says gently. “Great, big, bloody dragons. I've wanted to fly on the back of a dragon, as big as Balerion the Dread, ever since I was a boy. Rather like you.” He looks at her, smiling sadly.

“But all the dragons are dead. And little boys do not get everything they wish for."

“You’re saying I can’t go,” Arya mutters, her face setting in a mutinous scowl.

“I’m saying… Ah, Arry. I’m saying you haven’t yet taken your vows. You haven’t yet taken the black. And you haven’t yet been named to the Rangers. What hurry is there, to get to the North?"

“You know why,” Arya whispers, furiously blinking her tears away. “He’s the only family I’ve got left.” 

“No, child,” Lord Mormont says, his voice deep and rumbling like a great bear's, like the sigil of his former House. “The Watch is your family now. We are your brothers. What are our vows?"

She sniffs, hard, looking away, hands fisting at her sides. “What does _that_ matter?!"

The Commander is unmoved. “What are our vows?” he repeats. 

“I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the-” her voice trembles and breaks, but Lord Mormont waits, waits and watches her, until she takes a deep, shuddering breath, curling her fingers around the hilt of the dagger Sansa had gifted her, so many years ago. “I am the watcher on the wall,” she says, steadier. “I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn. I am the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men.” She takes another breath, and this one goes down easier. "I pledge my life and honor to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come."

Lord Mormont looks at her approvingly, a twinkle in his pale, blue eyes. "The shield that guards the realms of men,” he rumbles, rising from his chair and coming to her, tapping her skinny chest with a closed fist. 

“Be the shield, Arry Snow.”

* * *

 

 

##### The Eyrie, The Vale of Arryn

"Thank you, thank you, my lady," the farmer is saying, his rough, homespun clothes painfully out of place in the Eyrie's Great Hall, as he backs away, bent nearly prostrate. It was nothing like this, when Papa met with Northmen who came to Winterfell to ask the Lord's help and mete out justice. They spoke with great respect to Lord Stark, and deference, yes, but they smiled too.

The North loves Papa.   
Rickon doesn't think the Eyrie loves Lysa. 

A cupbearer darts up the hidden stairs leading to Lysa's throne-like seat, whispering in her ear and Rickon watches as a manic gleam enters her eyes, her shoulders throwing back, pushing her nipple even deeper into Robin's waiting mouth. Rickon shifts uneasily at Mother's side. 

A man strides into the Hall, in long, deep green robes that billow out at his ankles. He’s short, and slim, his jaw sharp, his hair peppered with grey. Their seats are to Aunt Lysa's right, facing towards her, and Rickon can't see the man's face. But it's the way Mother stiffens next to him, that tells him something's wrong, the way her fingers fly to her mouth and her eyes glisten a dark Tully blue. 

Whoever this man is, he is... _important_. 

"My lady," the man is saying, his voice carrying beautifully through the room, as he executes a sharp, graceful bow. “It is such a pleasure to see you again. You look more radiant each time we meet," he says, his voice ringing with sincerity, and Rickon sees splotches of deep red appear on Aunt Lysa's cheeks, her sallow skin pulling taut as she smiles happily, all her yellowed teeth on display. 

Mayhaps there's something wrong with the man's eyes... Rickon feels a sudden stab of pity for him. How terrible, to be so blind that you'd think Aunt Lysa beautiful. 

"And my Lords and Ladies of the Vale," the man announces, louder now, taking a few steps back so he may address the room at large, "it is good that you are assembled here, that we may speak of matters that rest so heavily on our minds. We mourn for our lost King," he's saying, and Mother's lips thin out painfully white, knuckles clenching into angry, infuriated fists on the stone bench, "Prince Joffrey's coronation is imminent, and-" 

He catches Mother's eye, and goes absolutely, perfectly still. There is a moment, a long, electric moment, where Rickon thinks he could be carved out of stone, before he takes a painful, shuddering breath and strides to Mother. 

" _Cat_ ," he whispers, the nickname only Father was allowed to use, and Rickon wants to stamp his foot and tell this- this- this _bastard_ to shut up, he _can't_ call her Cat!

But Mother doesn't seem to mind at all, coming to her feet. “Petyr,” she says, almost stepping forward to him. “You’re _here_."

"You're _alive,”_ the man named Petyr murmurs reverently. "Oh, thank the Seven, Cat," he says, taking both her hands in his, a secret smile curled into the side of his mouth, eyes bright and soft and wondering, a man who's seen the heavens reveal themselves. 

It reminds Rickon, almost painfully, of the way Jon looks at Sansa sometimes, when he thinks no one is watching. Jon isn't any good at keeping secrets.

And from between the narrow, thrumming space between Petyr and Mother, Rickon glimpses Aunt Lysa, upon her silver throne, her grown son suckling at her naked teat, her presence entirely forgotten. Her face is contorted into a furious, horrifying snarl, and it takes everything in Rickon in that moment, not to hide himself away from her wrath.

* * *

 

 

##### The Free City of Pentos, Essos

And a sea and half a continent away, the Lord Commander Mormont's disgraced son climbs the steps to the dais at a Dothraki wedding.

He bows to a girl with white-blonde hair, and enormous violet eyes, a girl who reminds him, with a sudden, startling vengeance, of the wife he had once loved and lost.

"A small gift," he rumbles softly, drinking in the sight of her, pale and slim and too lovely for words, "for the new Khaleesi. Songs and histories from the Seven Kingdoms."

"Thank you, ser," she replies, and for a fleeting moment, under the cover of the books, their fingers brush. "Are you... from my country?"

"Ser Jorah Mormont," he says, his voice strong, his accent clear. "Of Bear Island. I served your father for many years."

* * *

 

 

##### Fork of the Trident, the Riverlands

In a tavern off the Kingsroad, a hundred thousand leagues from the exiled knight, in a room with a dying fire, Sansa Snow polishes her scimitars meditatively. Ice is propped by the fire, Valyrian steel gleaming in the flickering light, the sword that once was meant to take off Jorah Mormont's head.  
  
She is three days away from the capital.

* * *

####  _"I have only loved one woman._  
_Only one, my entire life._  
  
_Your sister."_  
_-Petyr Baelish, to Lysa Arryn_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A clarification on timeline:  
>  **Pyke:** The Dreadfort and White Harbor are both roughly equidistant from Winterfell, and Roose Bolton mentions at one point that Winterfell is only a week's march away, with an army at Ramsay Snow's back. With a single, well-provisioned rider taking well-maintained roads and summer keeping the paths clear, Theon should make it to White Harbor within, at most, three days time, and thereon to the Iron Islands in same amount of time, placing him in Balon Greyjoy's castle at approximately the same time that Arya Stark reaches the Wall and Robb Stark is initially thrown into the dungeons at KL.  
>  **The Vale:** Since Petyr would've left KL immediately after the Lannisters reached, Rickon and Catelyn's timeline is the farthest along, co-inciding with Arya's, putting them at well over a fortnight since the duel.  
>  **Essos, and Fork of the Trident:** Daenerys' wedding happens at the end of Episode 1, so technically, these two scenes are not occuring at the same time. To be perfectly accurate, by the time Sansa has crossed the Neck, Daenerys has been wedded and bedded, and they are halfway to Vaes Dothrak already, and thereon, to the Lhazareen villages.


	11. i see his demons in empty hallways

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A man makes a vow, a girl makes a confession, and a boy makes peace with Fate.

####  _“Everyone is mine to torment. You'd do well to keep that in mind, you little monster."_  
_\- Joffrey Baratheon, to Tyrion Lannister_

* * *

 

#### Greytower Watch, The Neck

"There," Meera says, adjusting the straps around Bran’s legs, and sliding off the horse. "Is that better?"

 

And it is- _it is!_ Bran shifts, just a little with his hips, and the horse canters to the left. He used his hands on the pommel to center himself, and then tugs at the rein, and as the horse breaks into a rolling gallop, the blue-grey grass of Greytower flying beneath him, Bran almost laughs. Cold, salty air whips through his hair, as he bends low over his horse, urging him quicker, faster, burning through a circuit of the enormous paddock in barely a minute.

"You did it!" Meera cries, grinning and jumping to her feet, loping over to him with her long, easy gait, cheeks flushed pink and hair curling in dark, flyaway wisps around her face. _She’s pretty,_ Bran thinks. _How did I miss that?_

But then a servant runs out of the keep’s hidden back entrance, pale and worried, calling out to him, his thin voice trembling in the wind. "He’s awake, milord! He’s awake and he’s not thrashing about, and he’s askin’ for you!"

Bran nearly falls off the horse in his haste.

* * *

 

#### Winterfell

 

“How did you do it?"

The priestess looks away from the window, surveying Tyrion over the rim of her wine goblet. Moonlight streams in from behind her, gilding her in blood and silver. “Do what?” she asks, her voice rasping sweetly over the syllables. There’s something about this one, Tyrion thinks. Something dark, and melancholy.

She has sad eyes. Eyes like his.

“Un- Hm. I’m not certain of the nomenclature.” He takes a deep swallow of his wine. It’s swill, but it’s Dornish swill, and Tyrion doesn’t want to make more trouble than he has. The insides of his mouth still taste like ash. “'Unburn' the girl? Yes, unburn the girl. Bring her back from the dead. The last I saw of her, Sansa Snow had had a sword through the heart."

“I did not unburn her, Lannister,” Melisandre replies, eyes shining with mirth. Is she mocking him? She _is_ , bloody hell, this _woman_. “She did not burn."

There is a sharp shattering sound, and both Tyrion and Melisandre spin in their seats, to see the new Lord of Winterfell at the door, baffled and scowling. There’s dirt streaked on his face, and his linen shirt sticks to his skin, translucent with sweat. Jon Stark has been digging graves all night.

“What do you mean,” he fairly snarls, dark eyes flashing, “she didn't burn? You- I thought _you_ saved her."

Melisandre chuckles, and sips at her wine. “My lord, I brought her back from the dead with a prayer to my Lord. Brought her back, even though her enemy had torn through her chest.” She arches a brow at him, with a scarlet smile to match her scarlet eyes. “That doesn’t mean the _fires_ touched her. Do you think Sansa Snow is an ordinary girl?"

* * *

#### Greytower Watch, The Neck

 

He seems shrunken in the dim, grey light of his room, no longer the gentle, friendly giant Bran has always known.

 

“Hodor?” he asks tentatively, as Meera wheels him into the room. 

“Wylis,” comes the answering rumble, as Hodor’s eyes crack open, a tired smile on his huge, soft face.

Bran blinks rapidly, frowning. He must have misheard. He _must_. “What?"

“M'name, Lord Bran,” Hodor says. “My name was once Wylis."

“You- you can _talk._ ” 

“Yes,” Hodor agrees. “I could not, for a long time… But the world has changed,” he says quietly. “The future has changed with it. My _time_ \- My _life_ is coming apart. I am dying, Lord Bran-"

“No!” Bran gasps, fingers gripping the sides of his wheeled chair. “ _No_ ,” he insists plaintively, hating the way his voice trembles. “You’re _not._ "

Hod- _Wylis_  smiles, gentle and sweet, almost affectionate. “I am,” he replies. “It’s alright. I don’t mind. Better t'go here, with a familiar face, than freezin’ to death North o’ the Wall, torn apart by the damn white walkers."

Bran frowns. “White walkers? Those are just stories.” 

Wylis chuckles. “Are they?” he asks, almost to himself. “When I go,” he says, and Bran scowls ferociously, opening his mouth to argue. “Ah, ah, milord, let me finish. I don’t have long.” And Bran watches a trickle of blood drip from his nose into his bushy grey-white beard. Wylis reaches out and wipes it away, leaving a long, crimson streak across his skin. “I have a message for you, from the Three-Eyed Raven."

“The  _who?”_

“He says he is sorry you shall never meet. He says he will choose another for that path, instead. There are two things you wants you to know. One, that when the time comes,” and here Wylis coughs, body heaving and convulsing with the force of it.

Mouth and hands and shirt splattered with blood, he forges on. “When the time comes,” he says, and his voice is rougher now, “and the truth is needed, ask Howland Reed. He is the last man who knows."

“Lord Reed? Knows what? What are you-"

“The second message is this.” Wylis smiles, and the expression is so painfully familiar, that Bran can _feel_ it, deep in his chest. He’s lost Papa. He _doesn't_ want to lose Hodor, please, please, he _doesn’t._  “You will never walk, Bran of House Stark,” Hodor says, voice reduced to a rasp. “But one day, you will fly.” 

* * *

 

#### The Red Keep, King's Landing

 

Robb comes to, gasping, the third night, the nightmare so fresh and vivid behind his eyes he's trembling, setting his chains rattling. 

"You're awake," a voice says, and Robb flinches, before turning to see her again, sitting cross-legged on the other side of the bars that trap him in. She's still in black. "They're coming for you." 

Robb doesn't reply. He doesn't think he can. His tongue feels like a strange, foreign thing that he wants to rip out of his mouth. Every blink hurts. Every breath hurts.

She slides a canteen through the bars of his cell. "Drink," she commands.

Robb looks at her, darting a fearful, desperate glance at the water. "Drink," she repeats impatiently. "I haven't poisoned it."

Hell, he hadn't even considered that. 

She exhales sharply, hand darting between the bars, pulling open the canteen's stopper and taking a healthy gulp. She slides it back in and Robb scrambles forward, noisily gulping the sweet, cold water, slopping it down his front in his haste. 

When the canteen is emptied, Robb glances at her. She's watching him, impassively. "Who's coming?" he rasps. 

"The servants. They're going to remove your manacles. They're going to draw you a bath, and give you fresh clothes, and feed you a feast. And then Joff will come, and tell you-" Her voice breaks, fingers curling and twisting in the dark folds of her gown. 

"You should hear it from me,” she says, almost to herself, as if she’s making a decision. "Not from him."

_Hear what? Who is dead, princess? Who do you mourn?_

"Fathe- The _King_ is dead," she says flatly. "Uncle Tyrion is dead. Lord Stark is dead. Sansa Snow is dead."

 _No,_ Robb thinks. _No, no, no-_

He's shaking, he realizes, tremors rattling the chains in a furious clatter, and Myrcella darts a fearful glance at the stairs that lead into the dungeons. 

"Stop!" she hisses at him, lowly. "Get a hold of yourself, Stark. Joffrey cannot know that you know, do you understand? If you don’t look weak and scared, and easily cowed, he’ll simply keep doing worse things until he _kills_ you _._ _Do you understand?"_

_They can't be dead. They can't._

"You're lying," he spits brokenly. "You're- Is this my punishment, princess? I'm sorry!” he curses at her. "I'm fucking-"

"I don't _want_ your apologies!" she whispers angrily, slapping an open palm against the stone floor outside his cell. "But you don't- you don't _deserve this._  You’ve repaid what you did to me. But you’ve _done_ nothing else! _Nothing,_ except be born a Stark. You’re _innocent,_ and my mother is a _monster,_ Joffrey is a _monster_ , and he's going to _hurt you._ You should be prepared."

* * *

 

#### Greytower Watch, The Neck

“Where’s Lord Reed?"

 

Meera frowns at Bran, confused. “Father? What do you need him for?"

“I need to talk to him. Hodor- Wylis said- He said there’s something Lord Reed knows that I-“ Bran shakes his head angrily, tear tracks drying on his face in itchy trails. There’s blood on his hands, still wet, where his nails dug too dig into his own skin. _Papa’s dead. Hodor’s dead. Who’s next?_ whispers a voice in his head. _Who dies next? Mother? Rickon? Arya? …Sansa?_

“Father's gone,” Meera says, shrugging, but there’s a little smile glimmering in her eyes.

“Gone? _Gone?!_ Gone where?!"

“Winterfell has called its banners,” she says, watching him carefully.

“Wint- But… That means-"

Meera nods, grinning, eyes bright. "Oh, Bran, your brother Jon’s alive!” 

“He- he is?"

She falls to her knees, so he doesn’t have to crane his neck up to look at her, clasping both of her hands in his, her pale, long face shining. “He’s called the banners. He’s _alive_ , Bran. He survived."

* * *

 

#### Winterfell

“Even as we speak," Jon announces, his deep, hoarse voice carrying through the blackened ruins of the Great Hall, "the south moves." Ghost paces the dais beside him, huge and pale and terrifying, as the Northern lords watch the direwolf with wary, approving eyes. Here, finally, here is a man who has brought his House's sigil to life. "Renly has announced he means to be crowned. Highgarden will move for him, and Stannis will find no allies amongst the lords of Westeros, and Casterly will support Joffrey’s claim."

Lord Mormont frowns. “Why Renly? Stannis is the older brother, his claim is stronger-"

“Renly’s fucking the Tyrell heir,” Tyrion announces bluntly, as Galhart Glover chokes on his ale and the rest of the Stark bannerman erupt in shocked, sniggering whispers. “If Loras Tyrell has anything to say,” Tyrion mutters scornfully, "their swords will go to Renly Baratheon.

 

"There are alliances being formed already, clear as day-"

“Clear to you, maybe, half-man,” Lord Karstark rumbles sullenly, and a chorus of agreeing whispers follows his words. “But we are of the North. Your machinations do not mean anything to us."

Tyrion stops pacing down the Hall, and turns to him, one eye dark, the other fair, his strange, strong face watching Karstark. “Don’t they?” he asks finally. “These southern machinations killed your liege lord. They took Robb Stark, a son of the North. They murdered your men, and butchered your women, and orphaned your children. They mean nothing to you?"

Karstark rises from his seat, spluttering and embarrassed and red in the face, “You little-"

“Yes, yes,” Tyrion mocks scathingly. “I’m little. Well-observed, my Lord. But even little men cast great shadows,” he hisses, stepping closer to Karstark, “and I will not rest until my _dear_ brother and sister are dead in the ground."

“And we’re to believe you?” the Greatjon Umber drawls from behind him. “You, a fookin’ Lannister?"

 

“I was their _brother_ ,” Tyrion spits. “Their _brother_ , and they left me to _die._ With the king, and with Ned Stark, and with their precious bloody Hound - they _left_ me there, to _burn_ alive. If you think I’ll rest,” he vows, menace writ large on his face, turning his features brutal and cold, “before they burn too, you don’t know me, my Lord."

And Greatjon Umber smiles. “You are little,” he grins, bushy beard twitching with laughter, “but fierce. Fierce!” he thunders, thumping an enormous fist on the tables, and there’s a wave of chuckling appreciation that follows. Jon Stark has a brow raised as he watches them, black eyes glittering in amusement, silent and watchful and frighteningly handsome. "You’re sure you’re not Northern, boy?"

Tyrion Lannister smiles crookedly, tucking his hands in his pockets, looking up at the great Northern Lord. His eyes are as cold as the ice of the Wall. “I was born on Casterly, Lord Umber. My sister forgot once, but she'll never forget now - a Lannister _always_ pays his debts."

* * *

 

#### The Red Keep, King's Landing

 

"Why?" Robb asks her finally, his hands wrapped around the bars of his cell, Myrcella's face inches away from his. Her eyes, this close, are almost startlingly green. _Why help me? Why warn me? Why protect me?_ But he doesn't say any of that aloud. 

“They tried to kill Bran. They- they _killed_ Uncle Tyrion. _Killed him,_ and he was _family!"_

“You loved him,” Robb whispers.

“He wasn’t perfect,” she confesses, softly. “He was strange, and not always good, and he drank and whored like he was to die tomorrow.

"But he was good _to me,”_ she whispers furiously, _“_ kind _to me.”_ She looks up at Robb, eyes glittering with unshed tears, rocking back and forth like she was desperately trying to hold herself together. “And when Joff- when he hurt me-“ She breaks here, burying her face between her knees, body convulsing with wretched, silent sobs.

“The prince... hurt you?” Robb asks, voice crackling with fury.

Myrcella nods, before visibly pulling herself together, wisps of hair sticking to her neck, tear tracks down her face - and she’s lovely still, Robb thinks. Without her mask, she is- she _is._

“Uncle Tyrion stopped him. Not Mother, not Father, not even the bloody King,” she curses, and Robb frowns. _Something’s wrong there, something-_ but Myrcella barrels on, words bursting forth furiously, like the dam has been broken. “Uncle _Tyrion_ made Joff stop, he was the _only one_  who protected me, and they _killed him!"_

“Is that why?” Robb asks. “Is that why you’re helping me?"

She reaches for him, head cocked to the side, with splotchy skin and reddened eyes and unbrushed hair, the loveliest thing Robb’s ever seen. She brushes away the dark, matted auburn locks away from his forehead, through the bars of his cell, her fingertips cool and soft against his skin. 

"You said I was a pawn, that day. Do you remember? A plaything, you said, a chess piece in their game of thrones."

Robb nods. "I remember, princess."

Myrcella smiles, just a little, the warmth and sadness of it reaches places inside of him that make him _want -_

"I don't like it," she confesses to him, in the crackling air between them, her gaze slipping away from his. He reaches out, manacles limiting his movement, but she sees it. She slips her fingers through his, and Robb Stark… Robb Stark is whole again. "I don't want to be their pawn anymore."

* * *

 

_(Everyone is mine to torment. You'd do well to keep that in mind, you little monster.)_

####  _“Oh, a monster, am I?_  
_Perhaps you should speak more softly, then._  
  
_Monsters are dangerous… and just now, Kings are dying like flies."_  
_\- Tyrion Lannister, to Joffrey Baratheon_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A clarification on timeline:
> 
>  **Winterfell:** It isn't obvious, since I kept most of it off-screen, but Winterfell is caught up with the other timelines. It would take an _insane_ amount of time to (a) arrange Ned and Robert's funerals (b) begin re-building Winterfell (c) decide to call the bannermen (d) send out the ravens (e) get the liegelords to assemble at Winterfell before they declare war. A raven covers distance in about half the time, so, allowing for that, by the time the meeting is being held, it should be approximately a fortnight from the duel.
> 
>  **Greywater/Greytower Watch:** In fact, Greywater is still between points (d) and (e), since Howland Reed has only just left the island, to answer Jon Stark's call to arms. If you were wondering how the raven reached the island, I have a working theory that there is a maester stationed at the shore of the swamps in the Green Fork, who passes messages to the crannogmen that know how to find the castle, rather than having the ravens fruitlessly search for the hidden Reed castle instead.
> 
>  **King's Landing:** Four days since arrival, putting Robb Stark at close to a fortnight from the duel, and the last in order of time.


	12. under the water, you scream so loud

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Little birds flit past the capital's walls.

####  _"They've all gone away."_

_\- Rickon Stark, to Bran Stark_

* * *

 

#### King's Landing  
The Red Keep 

It is as Myrcella had said. 

They come on the fourth day, when the sun is but a suggestion at the far edge of the world, the sky turning steadily brighter above the capital. 

He is assigned quarters, and clothing, and a hearty breakfast, and Robb eats ravenously, without thinking, arms trembling, stomach gurgling with the influx of breads and cheeses and fruits and watered wine. He doesn't miss the guards at his door, nor the muscles cording the arms of his 'manservant'. When he asks to walk the courtyards by the barracks and training pits, he is escorted by Lannister men, their red cloaks billowing in the sea air. His belly roils, unused to such rich food after his long days of deprivation, and the Blackwater reeks of fish and brine, mingling with the putrid air of King's Landing, a corpse laid open and rotting in the sun. 

The heat of the sun is heavy on his back, a palpable weight of bright summer, crushing him, crushing the breath out of him, and this is how Ser Barristan finds him, hours later, weak arms braced on the parapets that overlook the sea, his wrists still marred black-blue, his skin blanched of color, a faint sheen of sweat dotting his brow, weary, sick to his bones. 

_Gods_. Winter couldn't come soon enough. 

* * *

 

#### At the Wall 

Arya spots the horse, riderless and bolting through the treeline, from her sentry post atop the Wall. It is she who raises the alarm, and rides down the lift with Sam, racing to the gate as the mare gallops into Castle Black’s main yard, the horn bellowing still, long and mournful, across the Wall. 

“That’s- That’s Un-“ She catches herself barely in time, darting a panicked glance at Sam. His brow is furrowed, but his eyes are trained away from her and towards the abandoned horse, confusion writ large on his soft, rounded features and Arya breathes a sigh of relief, before fear takes hold of her, biting cold. 

Commander Mormont comes down the stairs from his quarters, grim-faced.

She looks at him, eyes wide with horror. “That’s his horse. Isn't it?” she asks, voice trembling, slipping higher with each syllable.

The Lord Commander nods, once. There is a finality to it that makes icy terror catch in her heart, that stops her breath cold in her lungs.

“That’s the First Ranger's horse,” she says, low and near shaking with fright. “Then when in the seven hells is _Benjen Stark_?”

* * *

 

#### The Iron Islands   
Pyke

“Tell me about Winterfell,” Yara says, staring off into the distance, arms crossed and hunching over the railing of a balcony, watching the waves crash blue-grey against Pyke’s cliffs. 

“What, really?” Theon asks, incredulous, hip cocked against the railing next to her.

Yara rolls her eyes. “Or don’t,” she drawls.

“No,” Theon backtracks hurriedly. “I’d like to, it’s just- Doesn’t seem the sort of thing you’d be interested in."

“Kept you interested enough to stay there well past your seventeenth nameday, didn’t it? What’s so bloody wonderful about it?"

Theon chuckles. “I know, I know. I should’ve been here two years ago. And there’s nothing special about Winterfell, not really. It’s cold and bare and you never see the sun- Well, its a bit like here, ‘cept it rains less-"

“I’m not asking about the weather, Theon."

“I know, I… What would you like to know? What the whores are like?"

Yara pauses, consideringly. “What _are_ the whores like?"

“Oh, surprisingly fantastic, really. There was this one girl - Ros. Seven hells, Yara… Red hair, you know, and these lovely, perfect tits, and long, long legs, and a laugh that went _right_ to your cock."

Yara glances at him curiously, smirking. “Were you in love with her?"

Theon grins, shrugs. “Only a little."

“And the Starks? What about them?"

“Well, there’s Rickon, he’s... little. And Bran, he wanted to be a knight when he grew older. He was the one Jaime Lannister tried to kill.” Theon takes a breath, and then another, and another, until the roaring in his ears has died. “There's Arya - she’s been missing for weeks now, but they haven’t put a bounty on her head yet, so they must think she’s dead. Idiots. There’s Robb - he’s been taken captive by the fucking Lannisters, and- And Jon. Well, Lord Stark now, I s’pose.” 

“Unlucky lot, aren’t they?"

“Not really. They’ll always have each other, once they get home.”

For a long time, she’s quiet. “There’s one more, isn’t there? The bastard?” 

“Aye. Sansa."

“What happened to her? Where is she now?” 

“Sister dear, I left the day she almost died. I haven’t the faintest fucking clue.” 

* * *

####  _"They'll be back soon. Robb will free Father, and come back with Mother."_  

_\- Bran Stark, to Rickon Stark_

* * *

 

#### The Crownlands  
On the Blackwater's shores

"Bah!" a man exclaimed drunkenly, from the table behind her, slamming his tankard down. The air in the tavern was muggy, dark with smoke and humid sea breezes. Sansa had kept her hood up, quickly spooning her hearty soup, washing down bites of dark bread with Blackwater ale. It was a day's easy ride to King's Landing, and she still hadn't figured out how to enter the Keep, forget finding her brother and getting them both out silently. _Swiftly_. 

"A girl?" the man was bellowing. "A girl couldn't do that! They're all bloody stupid up north anyway," he pronounced authoritatively, as his companions murmured in agreement. "I'm telling ye, the cold freezes up their minds. Breeds ‘em dumb as horses. I met a girl once, from the Neck. Name was Bessie, and she had these big brown eyes, and big, fat titties-"

His table erupted in a chorus of groans, as his friends begged him to _'shut **up** about Bessie, for the love of the Seven!'_

Sansa rolled her eyes, uncertain what they were talking about - and not too curious, either - and finished her dinner. From the corner of her eye, she tracked the blue-eyed beggar girl who'd been following her from the moment Sansa crossed Duskendale. 

Sansa knew she was being watched; and if she'd been careful, the watcher didn't know she was being watched too. 

She hadn't attracted the attention of the soldiers patrolling the Kingsroad, black armbands tied in mourning for their dead King, their eyes narrowed and watchful. She was no oddity, for all that she was a solitary female - as long as she kept her hood up, and wore breeches and a swordbelt, there were few who noticed that she wasn't actually a young man. 

So who was this child, with her grubby hands and unblinking stare?  
What did she want?

And above all, did she... Did she _know?_

Did she know why Sansa was here?

* * *

 

#### Winterfell

"So. Lord Lion," a new voice drawls. "They tell me you have the Queen's terms."

Tyrion looks up from the scrolls, and locks eyes with a young Northern woman, slouching against the doorway to the library, arms crossed over her chest, a look of bored indifference stamped across her long, sullen face. Her dark hair is pulled back in a braid so severe it nearly makes Tyrion wince in sympathy, and her tunic and breeches reveal her form to be long and rangy, raffish like a pirate-girl rather than a highborn young lady. 

"Lady Alys," Tyrion acknowledges quietly. "Yes, I do. My sister keeps things... interesting, as always. The raven arrived early this morning. I assume your Lord father told you about the terms?"

"Aye," she replies, walking into the room only to prop herself up against a bookshelf once more, keeping a fair few feet between them. "'Bow to Joffrey, acknowledge him as King, keep the peace,' so on and so forth. A steaming pile of horseshit, as far as Father is concerned."

Tyrion grins, and Alys Karstark continues, "And something... Something about the bastard girl? Sansa, isn't it?"

The grin falls away. "Yes," he confirms grimly. "They are accusing Sansa Snow of murdering the King. Some elaborate concoction about her wanting to be legitimized and dowried and married off to a Northern lordling, and her _murdering_ the lot of them when her request was denied."

"That isn't what happened?" Alys asks blandly, cocking her head to the side. 

Tyrion levels a flat look at her. He doesn't reply. 

"You'll pardon me, my lord," the Karstark girl continues blithely, examining her fingernails with interest, "for being a little confused. I've been hearing such interesting stories from the smallfolk, don't you know... Stories about a great fire, and a red witch. Stories about how the king and the Warden burnt to their death, but you and the bastard girl walked out untouched." She slants him a cold smile, that doesn't reach her hard, dark eyes, and the mistrust that curls between them is prickly and familiar, almost like friendship. 

"It's a funny old world," Tyrion shrugs, smiling so warmly it is a threat in itself. "Was that all, Lady Alys?"

She rolls her eyes in return. "It's a good lie your sister's drawn up," she points out, sounding quieter, more contemplative. "There's a fair lot down South who'll swallow the tale easily enough. And what happens when Lord Jo-" She stumbles over her words, and waves it off with, "that is, when Lord Stark denies her terms?"

Tyrion shrugs. "War, I wager."

Her answering smile is rapier-sharp. "War," she repeats, drawing out the word as if it tastes sweet in her mouth. Her lips, Tyrion notes absently, are thin, and dark as blood. "Indeed."

* * *

 

#### King's Landing   
**The Red Keep**

“Again.” 

Ser Barristan says the word inexorably; the force of it resonates in the shimmering air of the training pit, dust rising in faint clouds, as Robb struggles to catch his breath. A throbbing ache radiates from the side of his chest where the Kingsguard’s sword had struck his ribs, forcing him to drop his own sword with a pained yelp.

“I can’t,” Robb hisses between breaths, hands balanced on his knees, the ground seeming to lurch beneath his feet. There’s a growing sense of unease in him, the back of neck prickling warily. He chances another look at their surroundings, but nothing seems overtly out of out place.

_So why does he feel like he’s being watched?_

“Yes, boy. You can.” Barristan walks up to him, and claps a hand gently to his shoulder. He leans forward, and he is quieter when he says. “They're waiting to see you weak. You can’t stumble now, Stark. Not here. Not now. Pick _up_ your damned sword.”

Robb looks up at him, eyes wide, heart thumping with renewed alarm. “What?!” His voice breaks half-way through the word, and he’s almost too scared to be embarrassed.

There is a warning glint in Ser Barristan’s eyes, as he moves back and drops into a defensive stance, one foot slightly behind the other, sword level with the ground, shield braced to his shoulder. 

“Pick up your sword,” he commands, eyes narrowed against the sun, his words low and dark.

Robb swallows dryly and quashes the urge to look over his shoulder. A cold line of sweat trickles down his spine, under the cotton tunic they’ve given him. 

He picks up his sword.

* * *

 

#### Interlude  
The Lannisters

* * *

 

"So she's married some savage horselord," Jaime is saying irritably, tossing the scrolls across the table and back to Varys, as Pycelle enters the chamber of the Small Council, looking pale and off-kilter. Jaime gestures expansively at the room. "The Targaryens are gone from Westeros, Lord Varys. You can't have missed it?"

Behind him, the banner of a Lannister lion flutters in the breeze, gold thread on crimson silk. 

Varys simply smiles, bowing his bald head with a murmured, 'Indeed not, my Lord,' and slipping the scroll back into his long sleeves. Jaime barely has a moment to wonder what else the all-knowing eunuch hides in there, before Pycelle interrupts, saying, "A raven has arrived, your grace."

Cersei arches a brow, exchanging an amused glance with Jaime, before turning back to Pycelle. "So quickly? I expected the Stark boy to take a little longer dealing with our terms."

"Not- Not from Winterfell, your grace."

"Oh?"

"The Vale."

Her smile is wider now, a little savage, victorious. "I see," she murmurs, plucking the tightly furled scroll from Pycelle's shaky fingers. "Littlefinger works quickly, doesn't he?"

"No- That is, your grace, he hasn't yet secured the Vale's knights. It is about the Starks."

Her smile dims away, eyes scanning the elegantly phrased words, the oily smarm obvious even though the man himself is hundreds of leagues from the capital, her mouth flattening in displeasure. She can practically _taste_ Baelish's poisonous glee, right off the parchment. 

"What about the Starks?" Jaime asks his sister, as rage paints her lovely features. She flicks the scroll over to him, and strides to an open window, fingers turning white over the stone ledge. 

"Baelish has located Catelyn Stark," she snarls, entirely at odds with the sunlight streaming across her golden hair, gilding her like an icon, as Jaime scans the missive, stiffening in anger, "hiding in the Eyrie with her youngest boy, hiding away with Lysa Arryn. They tell him-" 

Her words break off; her breath trembles with barely leashed anger, and she hisses, over her shoulder, "They say Bran Stark is still _alive_."

* * *

 

_(They'll be back soon.)_

####  _"No they won't."_

\- Rickon Stark, to Bran Stark


	13. into a valley of dry bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loyalties are questioned across the realm.

####  _"So you agree? The Starks are our enemies?"_  
_\- Joffrey Baratheon, to Cersei Baratheon_

* * *

 

 

_“I warned him what would happen, my lady,” Ser Jorah Mormont said. “I told him to stay on the ridge, as you commanded.”_

_“I know you did,” Dany replied, watching Viserys. He lay on the ground, sucking in air noisily, red-faced and sobbing. He was a pitiful thing. He had always been a pitiful thing. Why had she never seen that before?_

_There was a hollow place inside her where her fear had been._

_“Take his horse,” Dany commanded Ser Jorah. Viserys gaped at her. He could not believe what he was hearing; nor could Dany quite believe what she was saying. Yet the words came. “Let my brother walk behind us back to the khalasar.”_

_“No!” Viserys screamed. He turned to Ser Jorah, pleading in the Common Tongue with words the horsemen would not understand. “Hit her, Mormont. Hurt her. Your king commands it. Kill these Dothraki dogs and teach her.”_

_The exile knight looked from Dany to her brother; she barefoot, with dirt between her toes and oil in her hair, he with his silks and steel. Dany could see the decision on his face._

_“He shall walk, Khaleesi."_

\- Daenerys III, A Game of Thrones, _adapted_

* * *

 

#### King's Landing  
The Red Keep

Robb and Ser Barristan fall into step once more, circling each other. The sun has begun its descent towards the horizon, and the sky has begun to fade to lavender, distant stars beginning to wink far over the eastern horizon as night encroaches on day.

They are breathing harshly, the both of them, and they have gathered an audience now, noblemen and stableboys, soldiers of the City's Watch and armorers from the Street of Steel alike, all gathered in a straggling circle around the edges of the slightly sunken training pit.

Robb's hair is thick with sweat, dripping into his eyes in burning splashes of salt, and even the old knight is red-faced, panting lightly, weighted down by his armour. Ser Barristan has years of experience on his side, the knowledge of how to preserve strength in battle, and he is hardened, tested, sure on his feet.

But Robb is young, and incautious, and while that might have hindered him in their early bouts, it has been six hours now, of sparring and harsh, bruising lessons, and his youth is his surest advantage. A pleasant, numbing burn has settled in Robb's body - tomorrow is going to be hell, but by the gods, he's been tossed into the ground enough times today.

He's going to _win_ , if only once.

Ned Stark won against Arthur Dayne, once, in single combat.

Robb has a legacy to prove.

And then he sees it, his opening, when Ser Barristan steps once more, off to the side, within the tight boundaries of their circle, and his foot lands not quite right. His eyes dart to the ground for barely half a second, and Robb grasps his sword tighter, as he explodes into silent, practiced action.

* * *

 

#### Winterfell

"She is gone, then? The red woman?"

Tyrion chuckles humorlessly. "Is that what they're calling her? The 'red woman'?" The Karstark girl does not reply. Her expression does not change. "Yes," Tyrion says finally, his eyes hardening in response. "She's gone to White Harbour."

"To the Manderlys?" she asks, brow notched in puzzlement. "Why?"

"Why does anyone go to the North's busiest port, my lady? I expect she wanted passage on their ships. This war will come North, soon enough."

"War seems to sit easily with you, Lannister. Have you so little love for your family?"

"Myrcella has always been the kindest, bravest girl I have known, and Tommen is a good boy, truly." Tyrion sighs and puts the scrolls away. There is little more that he can learn now from books and scribblings of maesters of old. 

The only thing that stands out is this - They are going to need allies, if they mean to come out of this war unscarred. Rich allies, powerful allies. 

It will come down to Highgarden, the Vale... or Dorne. Doran Martell has never had love for the Baratheons. And both Margaery Tyrell and Arianne Martell are yet young, unwed. 

How lucky then, that they have a Lord of Winterfell, equally young and unwed, to spare...

He meets Alys Karstark's gaze, her eyes fathomless and dark, as if they steal the very light out of the air. "But, for now," he tells her, "I trust my sister to keep them safe. It is her only redemption - that she loves her children so well. It is the only good, pure thing left about Cersei."

He pauses.

"It is her curse."

* * *

 

#### At the Wall  
Castle Black

“You knew he’d been missing for a while now, Arry.”

_“Missing?!”_ Arya retorts lowly, fists balled up. They’re in the privacy of his quarters again, and Arya feels more and more as if they’ve caged themselves in this rotting place, sequestered away from the rest of the world against false monsters and lost gods. “His horse is here. He’s **_out_** there. For all we know, he’s-“

But she can’t make herself say it. She can’t. 

“Let me go. Let me join the ranging party, to search for him. _Please_. Lord Mormont, please, I’ll do anything.”

His eyes harden though, and that is enough of an answer. “You take your vows tomorrow,” the old bear replies gruffly and Arya’s so bloody frustrated she could scream. “The heart tree is past the Wall. A half-hour’s ride, and you’ll be there. Once you return, we will discuss this again. Is that understood, Master Snow?”

“My lor-“

“Is that _understood?”_ he cuts in sharply.

But it is barely a question.

Arya stills, in the way Sansa had taught her once. Her exhale leaves like a wisp of curling smoke, and the wavering shadows of the room wash over her like an embrace. Her eyes grow flat, and her heart grows hard in the shelter of her ribs.

There is no one for her here. _No one._  
No one who loves her.  
No one who gives a damn whether she lives or dies.  
No one except maybe, _maybe_ Benjen Stark.

Breathe in, breathe out.  
_Kill the girl, Arya. Let the bastard take her place._

Arry Snow nods. 

“Aye, milord,” he slurs, vowels rounded and drawn, like sticky strands of honey. Something akin to discomfort flickers in Lord Mormont's eyes at the way she pulls on her second identity with slick ease, something that walks the edges of fear.

Deep inside Arry's heart, Arya Stark smiles, sharp as a Valyrian blade.

“’Tis understood."

* * *

 

#### King's Landing  
The Red Keep

Afterwards, he crawls to a standing position, and helps Ser Barristan to his feet, with a sheepish, awkward smile, picking up his own sword and handing Ser Barristan his.

Their match ended in a draw, with them both disarmed. But to Robb, only fourteen, with his years stretching out ahead of him, it feels like victory.

The old knight's eyes are gleaming with approval, and their little crowd is hollering cheers and praise. Ser Barristan takes him by the wrist, raising his fist to the twilit sky, a broad grin lighting his weathered face, and Robb feels a warm, brilliant glow settle in the place beneath his heart.

They make their way back to the armoury slowly, both exhausted from the day's efforts.

"You did well," Ser Barristan says quietly, Robb's guard trailing them a few paces behind, their red cloaks catching the wind and billowing like crimson sails. "If you keep your guard up like that the whole time you're here... Why, you might even survive."

"Don't need to keep it up all the time," Robb mutters, tongue loosened by sheer exhaustion.

"Oh? And what friends have you made here in the palace, boy?"

"I- It doesn't matter," Robb snaps, wincing when he realizes how sharp he sounds.

"Ah, I see... This is about a woman."

Robb looks up at him, shocked, and Ser Barristan chuckles, blue eyes dancing merrily. "I'm not so old, boy, that I've forgotten what it's like... Young love's a fine thing, but who in this castle do you know that you might-"

He meets Robb's eyes, and the cheer on his face dims in an instant. "Not she," he says lowly. "Not the _princess_. My god, you _can't_ be that stupid." His jaw hardens as he takes in the look of mute defiance Robb now wears. "I can see that you are."

Ser Barristan stops then, and grasps Robb fully by the shoulder, forcing him to turn to face the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. His other wrist is still limp, clasped to his chest, and Robb stomps out the guilt before it can catch hold. 

They are nearly of a height, the two of them, but from this close, even Robb has to tilt his chin up to look Barristan the Bold right in the eye.

"Listen to me, boy, and listen to me well. The Lannisters are a cruel, hard people, and there is no one, **_no one_** they value more than their own. Myrcella may be a Baratheon in name, but she is her mother's daughter. When a Lannister starts whispering promises in your ear, that is when there is a knife you cannot see being held to your throat." 

There is an electric, urgent quality to his voice, the kind that makes the little hairs at the back of his neck stand on end. Barristan nearly shakes him as he demands, "Have you forgotten so _quickly_ , what they did to your father? Your brother? Your half-sister? Your king?" 

Robb's eyes widen. "You... You know?"

Barristan scoffs. "Of _course_ I know!" he spits. "I, and anyone with half a mind in this wretched cesspool of a city, knows! And so my time here is limited. Soon, sooner than you think, there will be a day when I cannot shield you. When that day comes, remember - the Lannisters have butchered more innocents in the name of gold than any noble family in Westeros, save the Targaryens themselves. They are to be revered, and feared, and yes, even respected.

"But don't trust them, boy. Don't.... For they will be your death."

* * *

 

#### The Iron Islands  
Pyke

"We will take Winterfell," Balon announces that evening, over the supper table, sibilant and low, an unholy glitter in his eyes. "Throw the Starks in chains, and plant the Kraken's banners over its Keep. And from there, the North will fall to our feet."

Theon goes still, stiller yet than the statues that line the Stark crypts. 

"No," he says. "This is not- No."

Balon Greyjoy laughs, smacking a palm to the table, hoarse and cruel and devoid of humour. "No?" he mocks. _"No?"_

"They raised me," Theon says fiercely, his voice barely leashed in its intensity. "The Starks - they fed me, they clothed me, they taught me to wield a sword and be a man. I will not raise a sword against them. They are my family."

His father's skin goes mottled, dark beady eyes bulging from his wasted face. "You are a Greyjoy! You are Ironborn! And I am your king!"

"You are not!" Theon roars, kicking back his chair and rising to his feet. From the corner of his eye, he sees Yara imitate his movement, watchful and wary. "You are nobody's king, Father! You lost the Rebellion- We lost the war. Our people bled, my brothers died. Stop this madness," he urges, his fists planted on the stone top, his skin cast in grey under the wintry sun. "Declare for the Winterfell. There is no true king in the capital, but there is a man worthy of our swords in the North. Declare for Jon Stark."

"Never," he hisses, eyes bloodshot, fingers curled into claws. “I do not bow to the Starks, boy. I will take my crown. I will pay the iron price."

"Strange," Theon jeers, mouth twisting in revulsion. "I remember a time when you did, old man. I remember when you surrendered your only son to keep your worthless neck."

"Theon..." Yara cautions. 

"Don't interrupt us, girl," Father sneers, rising to his feet, knees clacking together. "House Greyjoy will accept King Joffrey. And when we take Winterfell, the Lannister bitch will give our House the salt throne."

Theon chuckles then, almost. "You delusional fool," Theon remarks, caressing the hilt of his sword like a woman's curves. "I will die before I fight for Cersei Lannister."

"That can be arranged," Balon Greyjoy hisses. "Yara," he commands, and the roar of the sea surges in Theon's ears, as his father says to his sister, "End him."

Yara draws her sword. 

"I cannot," Theon tries to explain to her, unwilling to draw steel against his own blood. "I cannot ride against Jon Stark, Yara. He is my brother. He's my family."

Something goes dead in her eyes, fingers whitening on the grip of her sword. " ** _I_** was your family too."

* * *

 

#### Winterfell

"Do you take it so lightly, the thought of war, then?"

"There is nothing I fear more... But if we spill blood now, to prevent more blood later, then it is a price I will pay."  

"It is a price _children_ will pay. Children will _die_ in this war, Lannister. Children of the North."

"Children have always died in war."

Alys Karstark laughs, the hollow, empty sound swallowed up by the stones of the room. It does not echo. 

"Yes..." she mused aloud. "You would know, wouldn't you? How old was Rhaenys Targaryen when your father ordered her dead? How old was Aegon when Gregor Clegane smashed his little skull against the walls of the Red Keep?"

"Aegon was two," Tyrion says, low, dark, so hoarse it can barely be heard. "Rhaenys was three." 

"They say your father's man stabbed her half a hundred times. A little babe of three years and he..." Alys scoffs, shaking her head, and the sound is soft, derisive. "You truly _are_ your father's son, aren't you?" she murmurs, head cocked to the side, studying him with bright, hard eyes. "You'd make Tywin Lannister _proud_."

Tyrion flinches. He does not reply. 

* * *

 

#### King's Landing  
The Red Keep

Robb steps out of the tub gingerly, once the water's gone cold, wrapping a towel around his waist and biting back a whimper as the aches and bruises of the day make themselves known with black, bloody vengeance. 

He twists around with his back to the looking-glass, after ringing the bellpull for the servants to clear out the tub and the water slopped over on the floor. The door opens, maids and manservants scurrying in and out, as he examines a particularly nasty welt to his back. When he rolls his shoulders experimentally, the bolt of pain that shocks down his spine nearly has him crying out loud, eyes filling up with sudden, hot tears. 

"Lord Sta- oh!" gasps a new voice and Robb spins, hands automatically tightening on the towel to face the intruder. 

Princess Myrcella stands on the other side of the doorway, wide-eyed, cheeks bright pink, the last, slanted rays of sunlight diffusing in the air around her, washing her in a pale, sunset gold. 

"Princess," Robb croaks out, ears burning red, flushed from the heat of the bath and sheer embarrassment. "What are y-"

But the princess is already striding into the room, wearing a look of sheer, unadulterated horror. "What did he do to you?" she hisses, lowly, fingers extending towards the worst of his bruises, before she holds herself back. Her hands curl into fists, inches away from his skin, and when she meets his soft gaze, her green eyes are bright with tears. 

_Myrcella may be a Baratheon in name, but she is her mother's daughter._

"Who did this?" she rasps, mouth twisting into a furious snarl, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven bursts, as if she's been running for miles. "Who did this to you? My brother? His guards? Payne? Trant? Tell me and I'll- I'll-"

_When a Lannister starts whispering promises in your ear, that is when there is a knife you cannot see being held to your throat._

Robb smiles, a slow, curious curl of his lips, not quite reaching his eyes. In his mind, Barristan warning roars with the savagery of thunder, but Myrcella's shoulders are shaking with rage on his behalf, a furious, captive lioness. His blood feels like sunlight, when he curls a gentle hand over her fist, running a calloused thumb over her knuckles, gentle, soothing, and says, "Barristan."

She nearly draws back in surprise, and Robb steps closer. She has to look up now, to meet his gaze, and there is shock in her voice when she repeats, "Ser Barristan?"

"Aye, princess."

 _"Why?"_ she asks, plaintively. Her eyes sweep down his chest, the black-blue bruises a patchwork of hurt painted beneath his skin. "This isn't _like_ him."

Robb places her hand over his heart, against his bare skin, and feels her breath catch. He crooks a finger under her pert, pointed chin and turns her face up to his, and grins, a little cheeky, when he says, "I asked him for a sparring lesson."

* * *

 

####  _"Everyone who isn't us, is an enemy."_  
_\- Cersei Baratheon, to Joffrey Baratheon_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note of warning: Just because two scenes appear in one chapter does not mean they are happening concurrently. But it also doesn't mean they aren't. 
> 
> Constructive criticism is always appreciated. (And yes, alright, I stole the Greyjoy exchange from Captain America: Civil War. SUE ME.) ((I'm sorry for being unnecessarily confrontational about this, but all the good parts in this fic are fucking stolen from better stories so idk *jazz hands*.))

**Author's Note:**

>  **Hit Kudos if you liked it,** and remember to subscribe if you'd like to receive updates when a new chapter is posted. Come fangirl with me on tumblr @dropofrum!
> 
> * * *
> 
> Chapter titles from:  
> Book I: Win, or Die  
> 1\. Halsey, _'Sorry'_  
>  2\. Stephen, _'Remembering Myself'_  
>  3\. Jaymes Young ft. Phoebe Ryan, _'We Won't'_  
>  4\. Breaking Benjamin, _'What Lies Beneath'_  
>  5\. Mt. Wolf, _'Red'_  
>  6\. The National, _'The Rains of Castamere'_  
>  7\. & 8\. Robert Oppenheimer, as heard in _'The Decision to Drop the Bomb (1965)'_  
>  Book II: Break the Crown  
> 9\. Illenium, feat. Nevve, _'Fractures'_  
>  10\. Keaton Henson, _'Flesh and Bone'_  
>  11\. Chance the Rapper, _'Acid Rain'_  
>  12\. Justin Timberlake, _'Blue Ocean Floor'_  
>  13\. Matthew Perryman Jones, _'O Theo'_  
> [Playlist here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9ky6HfTioqY&list=PLZTQh0Dg3XdY5UUgy4O-TdSaA72OPwVtp).


End file.
